Treating Robert Chase
by Calico17
Summary: Crossover between House MD and In Treatment. Sixteen year old Robert Chase becomes Dr. Paul Westons reluctant patient while Chase's father attends a medical conference in Baltimore. Together they embark on a journey through Chase's childhood, discovering similarities in their upbringing, and exploring the ambivalent relationships with both their parents.
1. Prologue

**Treating Robert Chase  
**

_A House MD / In Treatment Crossover_

* * *

_**Prologue**_

* * *

"Hello, Dr. Weston. This is Rowan Chase speaking. Dr. Maher suggested I'd call you. I need an appointment as soon as possible. It's rather urgent. You're having a slot this week? If it's inconvenient, I'm not going to waste any more of your time and call someone else."

The voice speaking on the other end was polite, with the hint of an accent. Paul automatically reached for his logbook on the desk. He had never heard of a Rowan Chase, or a Dr. Maher, for that matter. "Why are you calling?"

"As I already said, I need an appointment. It's not for me. It's my son. He's been travelling with me to a conference here in Baltimore, and he's getting a bit of a worry."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he's a teenager," Rowan said, as if it explained everything. "He's difficult to begin with, but he's acting out recently, and I believe he should see someone about it. I tried to talk to him, but it's no use. He… he seems to have a hard time opening up to me."

"So your teenage son doesn't talk to you, and you're feeling he needs therapy."

"No," Rowan replied, "I think he needs therapy because he tried to harm himself last night."

There was a moment of silence before he cleared his throat, speaking again in a low, deliberate voice.

"He denied it, of course. Said it had been an accident. I had left him alone at the suite, attending the conference without him because he said he was jet-lagged. Next thing I hear, they found him fully dressed in the hotel pool. He jumped over the balcony and just barely hit the water. Sprained his wrist and broke his collarbone when he hit the ground. People saw him dancing on the railing like it was some sort of a dare. Don't you think that's reason enough to be worried?"

Paul fumbled for his glasses in his shirt, checking his schedule. "You said you're here for a conference."

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"Well, it means you're in Baltimore for a limited span of time. If I decide to take on your son as a patient, it might take a little bit longer than that."

"I'm not asking you to treat him," Rowan said. "I need him to talk to some professional, and Maher said you're the best there is."

"It doesn't usually work like that."

"Listen, I know how it works. My wife has been seeking out therapists for years, to little effect. All I want you to do is to evaluate my son's state of mind, and talk some sense into him if you can. If you fail to do that, I'll have to consider having him admitted to a specialist back in Melbourne, and I will if need applies. But I'd rather have him talk to you than tying him to his room while I'm maintaining a full schedule at the conference. I'm one of the main speakers."

Still, the name didn't ring a bell, though it was clear that Rowan Chase expected Paul to understand what a busy and important man he was.

He searched through the dates and names on the list, calculating their importance. "I have an opening on Friday at six pm."

"Fine. He'll be there in time."

Rowan hung up. As soon as he did, Paul realized that he didn't even get a chance to ask for the boy's name.

* * *

**a/n:**_ Upon a reviewer's suggestion (thanks Nina!), I decided to__ re-post this story in the House M.D. section. It's a crossover of House/In Treatment, but the main focus is on Chase, so I guess it's okay to post it here where people can actually find and read and, hopefully, enjoy it. I discovered In Treatment just recently and was immediately fascinated by the character of Dr. Paul Weston, beautifully portrayed by Gabriel Byrne. Paul has a lot of common ground with Chase - in short, his parents got divorced when he was a boy, and like Chase, he felt like he was being abandoned by his father who was a surgeon, and left alone to take care of a sick mother. I felt like he could easily relate to Chase, so I decided to write a fic where Chase gets to meet Paul while he's still in his teens. (If you haven't seen In Treatment, you might want to give it a try, because Paul is absolutely amazing with young patients!)_

___This story is not beta-read, and English is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes that feel odd enough to be corrected, feel free to let me know. _


	2. Out in the Open

_Day One_

_Friday, 6 pm_

* * *

**Out in the Open**

* * *

The boy in the door didn't make a move to enter. He just stood there like he was glued to the threshold, his eyes searching the darkness of the room behind Paul's shoulder, his left hand clutching the strings of his backpack. His right arm was in a medical sling, resting to his chest. He wore a flexible band aid around his wrist, and his bottom lip was split. It seemed to heal fairly quickly.

"I didn't expect you to come on your own," Paul said softly, breaking the silence and moving away from the door as if to let the boy know there was no threat in the shape of a monster in a psychiatrist's office.

"My father's been busy. I took the bus."

"The timetables are a bit confusing. They're rather complicated, I must admit. Most people prefer to take the car."

"I don't find it complicated," the boy said, allowing himself to look at Paul. He was small for his age, and nothing at all what Paul would have expected. In his mind, he had this picture of a rebellious young man wearing black and a piercing through his eyebrow. After nearly ten years of practice, he really should have grown out of typecasting by now.

"Please, come in," Paul offered.

"I don't think so."

"You mean you want to stay outside?"

"I want to leave, is all."

He spoke in a prominent Australian accent, far more distinctive than his father's. Paul stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind him. "You know I'm kind of in a disadvantage here. Your father told me he wanted you to see me, but he didn't even tell me your name."

Chase junior huffed, and flopped down onto the bench in the front garden. "He probably doesn't remember."

"Why would you say that?"

"Oh, never mind." The boy glared up at him, suddenly looking suspicious. "Are you trying to trick me?"

"No." Paul smiled as he watched the boy pulling a lunch box from his bag, carefully unpacking a tuna sandwich, thick with mayonnaise and tomatoes and green leaves which had already begun to wilt. "I just found your phrase of words interesting."

"I forget. You're being paid to find other people's ramblings interesting."

"People don't ramble at me, you know. At least that's not the word I'd use."

"So what do they do? Confide in you? Like you're a priest or something?" He took off a bite, leaving Paul to marvel at the whiteness of his teeth.

"No, not like a priest," Paul said, taking the seat opposite the boy. It was chilly out there, and dusk was falling in quickly, but the kid didn't seem to care. "More like a listener, actually."

"My dad told me you'd do that. Listening. What if I have nothing for you to listen to?"

"Oh, don't worry about it. Your dad is going to be charged anyway. I post-phoned closing time for the sake of your appointment." Paul watched the boy eat. He did it with gusto, like he hadn't eaten anything proper for ages. Occasionally, he'd struggle with the use of his hand, apparently not being used to operate with his left. "You need any help?"

"Why, would you feed me?"

"I can fetch you a proper plate from the kitchen if you like."

The boy looked at him with his mouth full, chewing. He swallowed down and said: "It's Robert."

Paul felt it appropriate to introduce himself as well. "Paul."

"My dad told me to call you sir. – Well, not explicitly," he added, "but he thinks it's disrespectful for me to call his friends by their given names."

"First of all, I'm not a friend of your father's. And I offered you to call me by my given name because all of my patients do."

"I'm not one of your patients."

"True," Paul amended, "but we might just as well keep things simple, don't you think?"

"Is it ever?" Robert asked. "I mean, people who come to you for a consult, they're pretty much screwed up. I'm not. I don't need simplicity like they do."

"That's an interesting thought. You're actually saying that screw-ups crave simplicity?"

"How should I know? You're the one that deals with them on a regular basis."

"Fair enough."

Robert wiped his hand on his jeans. "Look, I know what my dad told you about the accident. He thinks I'm doing it to annoy him. I don't. I ransacked the mini-bar and got plastered. When I walked out to catch a breath of fresh air, I felt like I had to throw up. I couldn't make it to the bathroom in time, so I leaned over the railing and somehow lost my footing. I was drunk, terribly so. Never happened before, and it will never happen again. I asked the guys at the hospital to keep it from my dad."

"You're a minor," Paul said, "whether you like it or not, your attendant is inclined to report this to your father."

Robert shrugged. "I told them my dad would consider a generous donation to the hospital if they didn't tattle."

"So your father is a rich man."

"Sort of." Robert huddled deeper into his jacket. "Is it always as cold as that?"

"It's December. Winters can be pretty rough sometimes."

"I figured. It's summer in Australia. I was surfing the other day, and now I'm frozen stiff. Guess I'm just not used to dress accordingly." He glanced at his watch. It was elegant and luxurious; the kind of gift a father would give his son for Christmas or a birthday. "The bus is running in ten minutes. If I leave now I might still catch it."

"I can drive you back to the hotel if you like. You're my last appointment for the day; it wouldn't be much of a bother."

"No, thank you. - I better hurry. It's been a pleasure talking to you, Dr. Weston."

He said it politely, like everything that came out of his mouth. There was a practiced smoothness to his speech that was free of the expected cuss words or the occasionally coarse language popular with youths. The thought occured to Paul that Robert Chase had the mind and manner of an adult already, careful with words, aware that he was treating on egg shells with the people around him. He didn't sound like a teenager at all.

"It was nice meeting you, Robert."

He didn't leave right away, apparently somewhat bemused by the fact that he was free to go. "What are you going to tell my father? He'll call you. I'm sure he will."

"He's worried about you. It's what dads do."

Robert scoffed. "I guess. Do you have kids?"

"I do. He and his mother are visiting his grandparents for Christmas in New York."

"Sounds great." Robert shuffled his feet, looking the other way. "You're going to join them?"

"As soon as I can make the time, yes."

"Happy Christmas to you, then."

"It's a bit early for that."

"Maybe. I just thought of something appropriate to say really." He stretched out his left hand. Paul took it, sensing the tight grip of his fingers. "Goodbye, Dr. Weston."

"Goodbye, Robert."

When he was about to open the gate, the boy turned around. "You didn't answer my question."

"Because I don't think I can give you an answer right now, or your father."

"But if he calls, what are you going to say?" Robert insisted, suddenly apprehensive. "He didn't send me to a psychiatrist for a whim."

"It takes some time to think about it."

"Can't we work something out? I mean, chances are he's not really interested in your opinion anyway, but you'll have to be convincing. Just tell him I'll be fine. It was an accident, and there's nothing to it."

"Why don't you come over again and we discuss this in private?"

"Here? In your office?" Robert eyed him warily through the curtain of his hair.

"Sure. I'm free tomorrow."

Robert huffed. "My dad didn't drag me all the way to Baltimore to entertain a shrink."

"Then why did he drag you all the way to Baltimore?"

"Don't know." Robert hesitated, and then he frowned. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I- I think I would like to see you again. Have another talk with you if you want to."

"I didn't ask you to talk to me in the first place, remember?"

"I do." Paul chose his words carefully, sensing the sudden change of mood between them. As much as he understood Robert's disapproval of his father's intervention, he also felt that there was a little bit more to it than teenage rebellion. If Robert wanted to leave, he'd be gone by now. "But your father is busy with the conference, and maybe you would like to tell him something more substantial than the fact that you've had a sandwich in my porch."

"You think I can't make up something substantial if he asks?" Robert shouldered his backpack, but didn't move. "Besides, he won't ask. He'll just make the call."

"Why won't he ask? Doesn't he trust you?"

"He doesn't even know me."

"Hm." Paul considered that for a moment. "May I ask why you're in Baltimore with your father? It doesn't seem like much fun to you."

"Surfing is fun. Girls are fun. Barbecues are fun. Baltimore, not so much. No offence."

"None taken. - Ever been to the National Aquarium?"

"I saw pictures of it in the brochure they place at the hotel rooms." Robert bit his bottom lip, and then made a face when the pain reminded him of the broken skin there. "My dad said we'd stop by after the conference."

"All right. Fine." Paul wondered why it was so hard for him to let the boy go. He normally didn't develop paternal instincts for potential patients right away. "Have fun then."

Robert kept standing there, absent-mindedly swinging the gate. It squeaked. "Please tell him I'll be fine."

"It's really important to you, isn't it?"

"Just don't make a big fuss over it, will you? I don't need him breathing down my neck."

"Okay," Paul said softly. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks." And then he was out of the gate, his footfall accelerating on the pavement because he had a train to catch.

Paul sighed and collected the wrappings left on the table, shivering in the cold and wistfully thinking of the hearth in his office.


	3. Cleaning Up

_Day Two_

_Saturday, 3 pm_

* * *

**Cleaning Up**

* * *

Shopping on a Saturday was a drag. Paul felt close to a physical breakdown when he pushed open the trunk, hauling two brown paper bags from it and carrying them on his arms, afraid that the handle might break under the weight of groceries. Really he paid too little respect to the value of having a wife who usually took care of the household, making it seemingly effortless to run smoothly. If he had been Kate, he would constantly complain about the amount of unnecessary wrapping of goods, be it toothpaste with the extra toothbrush or the ridiculously large cardboard containing his aftershave. Not to mention the ludicrous amount of sanitizers he had to buy because he couldn't for the life of him figure where Kate kept the cleaning utensils.

One of his last patients, a high-powered barrister with a tendency for bulimia had had an outburst in his bathroom, and he still had not brought himself to clean it up. It wasn't that bad actually because she had done her best to eliminate the mess she'd made, muttering excuses and blaming him in one breath. The parting, however, was amicably; she would be back next week.

Paul stored the groceries in the kitchen and stuffed the fridge until he was afraid it might burst open again unless he wedged it. Then he collected a range of mysteriously coloured detergents and, armed with a brand new bucket and a bunch of rags, walked downstairs. When he opened the door, he noticed someone sitting outside on the porch. A grey woollen coat and the glimpse of blond bangs under a knitted cap told him it was Robert Chase, waiting in front of the house.

Robert jumped when Paul opened the door, as though it was the last thing he would have expected. His face was glowing from the cold. "I tried to give you a call. I…- I left a message on your machine."

"I haven't had a chance to-…" Paul didn't finish but stepped aside and beckoned him in. "You must be frozen solid. How long have you been sitting out there?"

"About an hour. You said you were free today, so I thought it would be all right to drop by."

"I had to re-schedule." Paul felt the need to explain. "The painful truth is I have been shopping. My fridge was empty."

Robert stayed close to the desk, studying the stacked-up papers on it. The knitted cap and the hair sticking out underneath it made him look a bit girlish; it was a notion that Paul found rather amusing. "This is your office, then."

"It is."

"Looks like my dad's. Except for the models. They're nice."

"Thank you."

"My dad's got a yacht. A real one. He took me once. I got seasick."

"Sorry to hear about that."

Robert shrugged. "It's one of those great boats with like three bedrooms and a deck pool and a snooker room. I used to dub it Throatgobbler Mangrove. – It's a joke. It's supposed to be a synonym for luxury yacht. Like in the Monty Python sketch."

"It must be cool to have your own boat."

"Do you sail?"

"Not really, no."

"Then why the models?"

"Didn't you do collectibles when you were younger? Aeroplanes, vintage cars, that kind of things?"

"Yeah, but that was such a long time ago." He graciously gave in a bit. "I got a model of the Falcon and the Jedi Star fighter. It was kind of cool back then, but I grew out of it."

Paul realized that he enjoyed hearing him chat. His accent made his sentences sound like a question, going up a bit in the end, and his voice was easy to listen to. He didn't seem to feel as uncomfortable as he did yesterday. "So how's your arm?"

"Doctors say I'll probably live."

"Did you get a chance to talk to your dad?"

Robert shifted along the book case, trailing his fingers across the dust jackets. "He's been too busy. I told him I'd probably see you again. He said it'll cost him an awful lot of bickies, but he's cool with it."

"So your dad's a pretty cool guy, right?"

"He can afford it. People with money on them are cool. Why shouldn't they be?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

Robert turned around, a sly grin on his face. "You're not exactly starving, either. My dad told me how much you charge for an hour. Anyway, it's cool to get whatever you want. You got the money, you're in command."

"It sounds like you have a lot of experience in this regard."

"I'm not spoiled," Robert hastened to add. "All of the kids at my school came from rich families. – Anyway, he said it was okay if I was to see you again. He'll pay you, don't worry."

"I'm not worried. Right now I'm a bit confused as of why you came back."

Robert frowned. "Is it a problem? I can leave if you want."

"Did you hear me say it was a problem?"

"Well, it's obvious you're keeping a tight schedule," said Robert, "with the shopping and all. I probably should have called. Talk to you first if it's okay."

"No, it's fine." He meant it. Paul usually didn't accept appointments on the weekends, but then again, the boy wasn't really a patient, and most of his domestic duties for the day were done. "Why don't you sit down and make yourself comfortable? You could warm up a bit while I make us some tea. I think we could both use something hot inside of us."

"Mmh." Robert flung his backpack onto the couch. "Can I use your bathroom?"

He nearly forgot about the mess in there. "Actually, I was just about to-…" Paul pointed at the detergents sitting on the desk.

"Oh." Robert gazed at the impressive collection of bottles and rags. "Is it as bad as it appears to be?"

"No, actually, a patient had a little accident in there and-… It's not too bad, I hope. I'm rather useless at cleaning." Before he got a chance to intervene, Robert quickly picked two of the rags and selected a bottle of organic sanitizer. "You don't have to do that. It's not soiled, it's just-…"

"I can handle it." Robert unbuttoned his coat, grabbed the bottle, and slipped into the small bath room. A second later, his narrow face appeared again. "I can't seem to find the bolt."

"There is none. I won't interrupt."

"This is kind of creepy." He shut the door again, disappearing for good this time.

Paul wondered what it was that made him want to learn more about the boy. His father was a renowned physician, obviously, and this was something that Paul could easily relate to. His own father had been a cardiologist, and a busy one, too. Unlike Rowan Chase, his dad had never taken the effort to introduce Paul to his professional world, let alone inviting him to join him at a conference.

Paul shook his head at the mere thought; it was so out of his own thinking, so bizarre to even imagine it. He could have been on bad terms with the old man had he had the decency to remember that he had a son every now and then. But things being as they were, he felt nothing but dull disappointment. Costly gifts for Christmas were what stuck with Paul, in the end. He still had a Montblanc somewhere sitting in its case in a drawer that he never used out of sheer principle. It was one of those things, Paul thought with a sense of irony, which made him remember that he actually had a father, living his life apart from his own. Paul was surprisingly okay with it. He never knew what to talk about if they met, which happened about once in a blue moon. John Weston had acknowledged the birth of Ian with a short and rather awkward visit, and did they invite him for the wedding? Paul thought Kate had insisted on it, but he had a very vague recollection of his father being there. He might have left early, heading to another conference or to attend to some urgent cases at the hospital.

The minutes were ticking away. Behind the bathroom door was absolute silence. Paul put down the tea mug and decided to knock. "Everything okay?"

No reply. He knocked again. "Robert? Can you speak to me, please?"

A muffled sound came from inside. Then, silence fell again.

"I'm opening the door now, is that okay?"

There was no response. Paul felt the sudden spur of agitation. He tried to open the door, only to find that it was blocked from inside. He gently pushed until it was wide enough to take a look inside. Robert was crouched on the floor, face in his arms and his back against the door, and panted heavily. His fingers clutched the rag like he was trying to wring it out, in an almost compulsive manner. Paul had seen that sort of behaviour in patients, and it gave him a start. Slowly, he sat down on his heels, touching the boy's shoulder as he went. "Robert? What happened?"

Robert sniffed. "Nothing."

"Are you in pain?" He realized how awkwardly Robert held his bandaged wrist, fearing that he might have overdone it by putting the strain of scrubbing on him. "Robert, please talk to me."

"Bloody mess," he muttered, "It never goes away."

"It's okay. You don't have to do this. Do you think you can get up?"

Robert scrambled to his feet, barely so. His face was pale like he'd seen a ghost, and he was shivering. Paul put his arm around the boy's shoulders and gently urged him out of the bathroom and onto the couch. Robert collapsed into the cushions, staring blankly at the leather chair. He looked like he was zoned out somehow, blind to what was in front of him. When Paul gently freed the rag from his grip, he noticed that Robert's fingers felt like ice, and it probably wasn't entirely for the fact that he had spent a lot of time waiting in the cold. Helpfully, Paul shoved the tea mug within his reach. "Drink this. It'll make you feel better."

"I should go."

"You're sure? You've only just gotten here."

"I shouldn't have come in the first place. It was a stupid idea." Robert rubbed his wrist, still staring into the metaphorical void. Paul stayed on the couch next to him and watched him coming back to his senses little by little, gradually getting aware of where he was. "I-… I didn't get to finish."

"You mean you want to go back to-…"

"No." Robert shook his head. "I mean I haven't done what I was supposed to do. Cleaning up."

"It's not that messy. It can wait," Paul said. He paused for a moment, giving the boy time to recover from what was presumably some sort of a mental absence. "You said 'it never goes away', you remember that?"

Robert rolled his eyes and wiped his face like a petulant child. "I probably did. So what?"

"It sounded to me like you're doing this fairly often. Cleaning things."

"I don't." Robert did his best to gain back his usual poise, but Paul could see he was still rallying. "My dad hired someone to keep the house clean."

"And yet you felt the need to take care of a mess that you're not responsible for. Would you like to tell me why?"

"Geez, I don't know. Maybe I like my bathroom unsoiled before I pee?"

"Can you tell me what happened in there; what made you so upset?"

"I guess it was the sprinkle of vomit on the tiles. It's fairly disgusting."

"How did you know it was vomit?" Paul had barely noticed it, and it would have dried up by now.

Robert shrugged. "I knew it wasn't something else."

"It upset you a great deal, hasn't it?"

He turned around to look at Paul. It was first time he actually did since he entered the office. The expression in his eyes was close to being terrified. "I want to leave."

"I don't think it's a very good idea. You've just had some sort of anxiety attack. I'd rather you stay here for a couple of minutes. Do you want me to call your father?"

"No!" The word came out almost as an outcry. Then, calmer: "He… he's giving a speech today."

"He should probably know about this, no matter how busy he may be."

"He doesn't care."

"How do you know? He called me because he was worried about you when you fell off a hotel balcony. You say it was an accident, but he may feel that you didn't quite tell him the truth. Did you tell him the truth, Robert?"

"I tried," Robert blurted out, trying hard to suppress the hitch in his voice. "He never listens."

"This is the second time you're using the word 'never'. It seems very definite to say for a person your age. Very sad, too."

"You're reading too much into it."

"Well, with a job like this, it's kind of hard to kick the habit."

"Your job sucks."

Paul chuckled. Although he sensed the desperation behind the boy's words, he still respected Robert's defiance. "Sometimes it does, yes."

Robert sniffled again and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "My mother used to see a shrink. She kind of clung to him. Said she'd be done without him. When she came back from their sessions, she always came back cheerful. She even looked different. Shinier. Does that make sense?"

"Well, some people get that. Some don't. Therapy's not a magic trick. It can do different things to different people, depending on their personal situation." Paul paused for another minute, watching the boy reach for the box of Kleenex on the table. "You haven't mentioned your mother before."

"Because she's dead."

It felt like a slap in the face, oddly enough. Paul didn't know how to respond. It hit too close to home. Robert glanced at him, his expression reflecting the shock on Paul's. "You didn't know?"

"It-… it didn't come up, no."

"And here I was, thinking he'd-… Oh, bugger me." Robert struggled for words, exasperated. "I thought he'd fucking _told_ you!"

"You think this is why your dad wanted you to see me; because of your mother?"

"She's _dead_! She fucking killed herself, and he just didn't _care_!"

For a horrifying moment, Paul felt helpless. He hadn't been prepared for something like that. He would have if Robert Chase had come to see him as a patient; he wouldn't have allowed the boy to catch him off-guard. Petrified, he watched the boy smashing his injured wrist against the armrest, once, twice, three times before he was able to get hold of him. "Robert, stop. Please stop doing that."

He dropped his arm, but his jaw was still clenched. "He really didn't tell you. He sent me to a shrink and didn't even bother to tell you."

"Perhaps he wanted to give you the chance to tell me yourself."

"Like this would change anything."

"Why do you think your father asked you to come see me, Robert? Was it just the accident?"

"He was just being mean! Jeez, that's so him, leaving me blind-sided like that. I was convinced he would talk about me; that he would tell you stuff to make it more interesting. What was I thinking?"

"Well, it certainly doesn't take your dad to make me take an interest in you," Paul said softly. "I actually get the impression that your dad talking about your personal affairs to a stranger would make you feel very uncomfortable. I know I would."

"Yeah, whatever. It's on the table now, so why don't you just ask?"

"What would you expect me to ask?"

Robert glared at him. "How she died, and when, and if it upsets me enough to jump off a balcony."

"I don't think it's that simple."

"It certainly doesn't upset _him_," Robert went on, in a derisive voice. "He took me out of college and sent me to a bloody boarding school instead. He's about to put the house back on the market. He sold the convertible already. He's got it all worked out as soon as she was gone. It's like he's finally getting rid off the garbage in his life. That's the only thing he cares about."

"What do you mean by garbage?"

"Like, stuff he doesn't want to deal with. Things he doesn't want to know about."

"He doesn't know you, for instance. – You told me that yesterday," he added when Robert gave him a quizzical look.

"Are you suggesting that I think he considers me garbage?"

"That's not what I said." Paul offered him the mug again.

Robert took it and stared down at it as though he didn't know what to do with it. "It hurts."

"What does?"

"The friggin' wrist, it does. – I'm leaving." He put down the cup, got up, and started to button his coat with his left. Paul didn't know why, but it pained him more than it should to see the boy fumble with the loops. He really wanted him to stay, but there was no reason to make him; Robert was lucid, and more than determined to go.

Paul walked over to his desk and scribbled his number on a piece of paper. "Will you call me when you got back to the hotel?"

"Why?"

Paul handed him the note, and Robert took it, which was a bit of a success already. "Please call me."

"I might," Robert said, adding a shrug, "Just make sure you'll put it on your bill."


	4. Absent without Leave

_Day Three_

_Sunday, 8 am_

**Absent without Leave**

* * *

The call didn't happen. What did happen was a phone call from Dr. Rowan Chase, disrupting Paul's morning routine. "I'm sorry to disturb you so early on a Sunday morning, Dr. Weston, but my driver tells me that he dropped Robert off at your place, and I was wondering if you would possibly know about his whereabouts."

"He was here yesterday. Didn't he tell you?"

"He hardly tells me anything." Rowan sounded mildly annoyed, but not overly concerned. "He's not, by any chance, still with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't show up at the hotel last night. None of the staff had seen him return, and the chambermaid found his bed untouched."

"Are you saying he's gone missing?"

"All I'm saying is he didn't spend the night at the hotel. He's been straying before, but he usually doesn't stay out for a whole night. I was wondering if, by any chance, you happen to know where he might be?"

"If your son has gone missing, you should probably be talking to the police instead of me."

"No need for that. He's old enough to know what he's doing. It's what he keeps telling me all the time." Rowan heaved a sigh. "The boy's always been like that, and I see no need to mollycoddle over a sixteen year old who constantly reminds me how independent he likes to be. He's not out of his mind; he's just, well, being a teenager."

"He's a teenager who is going through the loss of a parent."

"Yes." Again, Rowan exhaled audibly. "Look. Dr. Weston, I told you he's been acting out lately, and I don't doubt that the passing of his mother attributes a great deal to that sort of behaviour. That's mainly the reason why I wanted him to meet with you. Whenever I try to talk to him, he's shutting down. He'd walk out on me and goes on a rampage instead."

"What do you mean, 'a rampage'?"

"Well, let me give you an example. The night after the funeral, he took the car out of the garage and sped it down the highway. He doesn't even have a licence. I had to pick him up at the police station the next morning. The officer told me he drove into a crash barrier and pulled the vehicle right into a construction site. He was plain lucky that nobody got hurt."

"And yet you tried to play it down by telling me that this is normal teenaged behaviour."

"It's your job to find out. That's why I called you."

"Don't you think there are other ways to help Robert come to terms with the death of his mother? I spoke to him yesterday, and I couldn't help but notice that he feels like he has no-one who actually can make up the time to listen to him."

"Doctor, I'm a busy man, but I am well aware of my son's needs. Believe me when I say that I did the best I could. I took him home with me after my wife died. I pulled strings to enrol him to a private school despite his grades. I arranged regular appointments with a nutritionist so he'll learn how to eat properly. I even sent out my assistant to get him a new set of decent clothes. He's been walking around like a hobo."

"Those are physical needs. What about the emotional ones?"

"It's not my fault the boy's a mess. Victoria neglected him, there's no doubt about that. She's always been terrible when it came to being a mother, God forgive me for saying so."

Paul tried to gather the bits of information in order to put them together, not quite sure what to say. He ended up with the obvious. "You're divorced."

There was a moment of silence. Then: "I suppose Robert didn't tell you."

"He's been rather secretive about personal questions." _Very much like you are_, Paul was tempted to add, but kept the thought to himself instead.

Rowan didn't evade this time. "We separated when Robert was twelve, maybe eleven. The divorce was settled around a year later. I filed for custody, but she's the mother. And he made it very clear he wanted stay with her."

Paul saw no use to discuss this on the phone. "What did your wife die of?"

"It was an accident," Rowan replied curtly. "Listen, I don't have time for this. The lecture starts in about half an hour, and there are a few more things that require my attention. Should you hear from Robert, please tell him to call me at the hotel. Goodbye, Dr. Weston. Thank you for your help."

The connection died. Paul hung up, deeply worried, and profoundly puzzled.

* * *

It was some hours later when Paul heard a knock on the door. The back door to his office was reserved for patients only, so he had a vague idea of who it might be. Nonetheless, he felt surprise at the sight of Robert Chase, squeezed into the corner of the door like he wanted to disappear into thin air. He wore the same clothes as he did yesterday, but they were crumpled as though he had slept in them. He probably had.

"Come on in," Paul said.

Without a word, Robert slipped past him and onto the couch. He looked adequately miserable.

"Your dad's been calling for you."

"Was he mad?"

"If he was, he kept it a secret." Paul handed Robert the phone from the desk. "You better call him."

"Can I just sit here for a minute? I-… I'll call him when I'm feeling warm again."

Paul sat down next to him, carefully paying attention to Robert's personal space. "You look starved as well. Are you hungry?"

"I'm fine." Robert fumbled with the buttons of his coat, his eyes cast down. "Can you make the call for me, please?"

Paul handed the device over to Robert. "Let's get this over with, okay?"

The boy sighed and dialled a number. Paul remained where he was, and listened to him talking to a number of clerks at the hotel Robert was looped through until he was finally connected to his father's phone.

"Dad? This is Robert. - Yeah, I'm sorry. – I know. I tried but-… No. I didn't think of it. – No need to. I'll get me a cab."

Paul could not hear what was said on the other end of the line, but it was obvious Robert did not like it. His expression changed, and he hunched his shoulders before he suddenly raised his voice.

"Can you please stop it? I apologized, haven't I? – Yeah, it's always you and that damn conference." He looked up at Paul, in an almost apologetic manner while he kept talking to Rowan. "What do you care? You never-… Yes, I did! I'm not a child! – No, you just-…"

Then the conversation came to an abrupt halt. Robert dropped the phone. "He hung up."

Quietly, Paul put back the phone onto the coffee table. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, sure," Robert said, but his voice was trembling.

"Would you like to tell me where you have been all night?"

"It's none of your business."

"Okay." Paul got up.

Robert's gaze followed him. "If you're thinking about throwing me out, then say so. I can handle it."

"Actually, I was thinking about getting us something to eat."

"I don't feel like eating."

"You have to. Boys your age-…"

"Don't give me that adult crap," Robert muttered. "You know nothing about boys my age."

"Maybe I do. I was sixteen once, too."

"That must be ages ago."

Paul smiled. Robert was right. A man in his prime, Paul felt like he had lost connection with the boy he once had been. It did seem long ago. He had done his best to grow as fast as he could to become the independent adult he longed to be when he had been Robert's age. All that mattered then was to become a man, and leaving boyhood behind. For some people, childhood just wasn't a good place to linger; a lot of Paul's patients would probably agree with that.

When he returned from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches, Robert was still on the couch, his coat neatly folded next to him with the knitted cap on top of it, his backpack at his feet. "I went to the National Aquarium," he said. "They locked me in over night. It was awesome. There was a warden circling the buildings. It felt like in a James Bond movie really."

"So you were enjoying yourself."

"Didn't get much sleep. But it was worth it." He made a faint attempt to smile. It was charming, like the smile of a scolded child who tries to make up for the trouble he'd caused. "I tried that once at the Melbourne. They kicked me out."

"Sneaking around at night is fun then, isn't it?"

"I guess. It's quiet, if nothing else." Robert kept his gaze firmly on the plate.

Paul shoved it across the table. "Help yourself."

He dug in, apparently hungry enough to forget about his assertion earlier on. "Don't you ever cook when your wife's away?"

"Sometimes I do. Truth to be told, I'm not very good at it."

"I am. I used to burn food to ashes on a regular basis after Mrs. Carmichael left, but I was getting good at it after a while. It takes some practice, though." He stopped chewing and bit the inside of his cheek like he had said too much already.

"This Mrs. Carmichael, did she do the cooking when you were living with your mother?" Paul asked, cautious not to overstep a line. He had to remind himself that Robert didn't come here to talk to him as a patient.

"She used to come around, yes" Robert said after a brief moment of consideration. "She didn't really have to. My Dad hired her and her husband to do some work around the house."

"Was that after your father left?"

Robert froze. Paul could sense the shift of mood; the boy's face went blank, and he set his shoulders. For a moment, Paul thought he might get up and leave on the spot. Instead, he said: "You spoke to him behind my back. Is that what you do, getting information like that?"

"I'd rather hear it from you, Robert, but he phoned me this morning and-…"

"This is _personal_," Robert snapped. "I didn't come to talk it over, you know? It's him who insists that I have a problem that needs to be addressed while he just sits on his bloody desk and prepares his bloody speeches for a bloody conference that I couldn't care less about. If he's not busy dishing out his amateur opinion about my mental state to a stranger, that is."

"Robert, your father didn't dish out anything about your mental state. He gave me a few facts that I can work with if you want me to, that's all."

"But I don't want you to! I'm not in the mood to chat about it, alright? I don't want my dad make decisions for me, either. I don't want him on the phone, telling you how hard it is for me to cope with all that shite because it's not true. I'd be fine if he stopped pretending that he gives a bloody crap about me!" He put on his slouched cap and struggled with his coat. Too outraged to get into the sleeves, he simply threw it over his shoulders and grabbed his backpack. "Anyway, I'm out of here."

"Is this how you walk out on your father?" Paul said it quietly and deliberately, with a slight sense of guilt because therapeutically, it was not the best move, but perhaps the only one that would work.

It did. The boy stopped in his tracks and turned around. For a long moment, he kept still, but his face was clearly showing his emotions. He was too young to hide it, and Paul was glad for it.

Finally, Robert said: "Right. It's all my fault then."

"I don't think you're at fault at anything. But I can't figure out what's going on unless you decide to talk to me. So far, I've only heard your father's side of the story. I'd like to hear yours."

Robert scoffed. "No you don't."

"Try me."

"I'm not talking to a shrink."

"That's okay. I'm off duty on Sundays."

Reluctantly, Robert moved away from the door. "You're not going to tell him?"

"I'm confined to confidentiality. Much like a doctor or a priest if you like. Whatever happens in this room stays in this room."

The boy plopped back onto the couch, and glared at Paul. "What happens?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do people cry a lot when they talk to you?"

"It happens."

"People don't cry when they go to confession."

"How do you know?"

"I used to go to confession, back home. Never felt like a big deal."

"Maybe you had nothing to feel bad about, then."

"It must be kind of awkward to be whined at," Robert said, his gaze fixed on the box of tissues on the table between them. "What does one do? Do you pat your patients on the back when they crash?"

Paul hid a smile behind his joined fingertips. "It's not a habit of mine, no. Why do you ask?"

"I guess it's embarrassing. Sort of uncomfortable, too, having people sob at you."

"That's quite an interesting observation. Most people wouldn't think about it."

"Don't they?" Robert propped up his feet at the table and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I do. I sometimes wonder what it's like. To listen to another person's shit and to not get annoyed by it. I mean, you're getting paid for it, so it's probably okay, but still. Don't you ever want to give them a good shake and tell them to grow up?"

"Is that what you want to talk about? How I see my patients?"

"Yes." Robert looked at him straight-faced. "Don't they get on your nerves sometimes?"

"You know, most people who seek therapy don't do it because they plan to lay down their defences in front of a stranger. Actually, a person can maintain a reasonable distance to their problems when it's discussed with a therapist. I can only speak for myself, but most of my patients don't – as you put it –'crash' unless they're ready for it. Some people don't do it at all. It doesn't happen as often as you might think." Paul held the boy's gaze. "Have you ever seen someone in that state?"

"'course not." It sounded indignant.

"Sometimes, it can be cathartic. And sometimes a person feels relieved afterwards."

"What if they don't? What if they realize how fucked up they are and decide to go and hurt themselves?"

"Is that what your mother did when she got back from her sessions? Just yesterday you told me that she looked different, that she seemed happier."

Robert glared at him. "I wasn't talking about my mother."

"Then who were you talking about?"

"Don't know." He shrugged, and huddled deeper into his oversized sweater. Then, after a while: "My dad thinks I'm fucked up. He thinks I'm trying to hurt myself in order to… – to get his attention or something. Like that's going to work."

Paul observed the boy, pondering his last remark before he decided to steer away from the topic for the time being. "Can I ask you something?"

Robert looked up again. "Mh-mh."

"Why did your father take you along?"

"Not because I asked him to, for sure," Robert said. "He said he'd take me to the lectures, introduce me to his friends and colleagues at the medical board. It's important for my future, he says."

"But you don't agree with him."

"I don't want to be a doctor", Robert said candidly. "It's the last thing I want to do. I told him, but he-… he just looked at me in that condescending manner, like I was talking in a different language. He asked me what I wanted to do with my life, and I couldn't answer. I had no excuse to stay home, so I went with him." He shrugged. "Guess I had nothing better to do, anyway. He took me to Bangkok last summer right after-… before he took me out of school."

"Travelling with your father must be pretty exciting."

"Trust me, it's not."

"My dad was a doctor, too. He never tried as much as to even raise an interest in me for his profession. To be honest, I barely knew where he was most of the time."

Robert looked at him with newly sparked curiosity. "Was he a therapist?"

"No. He was a cardiologist. I think he loved his job. Loved what he was doing. He knew he couldn't pass it on to his sons; my brother was more interested in sports, and I was too squeamish to become a surgeon. I used to faint at the sight of blood."

"But you're okay with tears and snot."

"I never thought about it that way. Does it bother you?"

"Don't know." Robert got distracted, or maybe he pretended to be. He started to fidget, his eyes darting across the room and coming to a halt at the bathroom door.

Paul followed his gaze. "What are you looking at?"

"I was thinking about the vomit."

"It's gone. I cleaned it up."

"Did you look behind the toilet? It's the worst. Hard to spot. It dries up really fast, too, like it's getting etched into the wall or something. It's like the tiles get stained forever."

Paul kept on scrutinizing Robert, who evidently tried to hide his discomfort by folding his arms across his chest. For the flicker of a moment, Paul thought he saw his lips quivering. He stored Robert's remark in the back of his mind and said: "Your father told me he assigned a nutritionist to make you take care of yourself; to make sure that you're eating properly. Did you have trouble taking care of yourself before that?"

"Does anybody really fall for that crap?"

"I'm just trying to evaluate something here. The way I see it, you're a highly independent individual. You don't like to rely on your father, and you keep dismissing him for being concerned about you. The fact that people care about you seems to make you feel like they're belittling you. I think you've been feeling that way for a very long time. It takes years of practice to develop into a grown up, and enormous emotional growth. It also requires self-evaluation, and responsibility. The thing is, you're sixteen years old. You're entitled to being a child, even if you might not see it that way."

Robert scoffed. "My dad wouldn't agree with you."

"You told me yesterday that he doesn't know you. Would you like to tell me why you said that?"

"He's never been around," Robert muttered reluctantly, tugging at his sleeves, "Not ever. My parents got separated when I was ten. Didn't make much of a difference to me."

"Do you remember the moment they told you?"

"They didn't have to. I knew. My mother wouldn't get out of bed for days, and my father stayed around with that serious look on his face. He spent a lot of time on the phone. I think he was talking to his lawyer or something. I overheard him one night, and he caught me listening outside of the study. He hung up and asked me to come in. At first I didn't want to. My dad's study means trouble, you know. You never go in there unless you have to."

"Were you afraid of what he was going to say to you?"

"Not really. I was ten, but I wasn't stupid. There were cardboard boxes stacked up everywhere. He had started to pack. Part of the shelves were already empty, and he was about to clear out a drawer when he asked me to sit down. I remember asking him if he was going to leave. He said he had to, and it wasn't my fault and blah blah. Then he pulled out this glossy brochure of a Swiss boarding school. It had pictures on it of pastures with cows and a mountain range, and I remember hearing him say that it was like Snowy Mountain, only better. He'd buy me a snowboard if I wanted to. He had this huge globe standing next to the desk, and he made a show of tracking down Switzerland with his finger. He said he'd be in Europe often, and he'd get to visit me at least twice each term."

"Do you remember how-… how you reacted?"

"I told him I didn't want to go. He asked me to think it over, but the way he said it, I knew he wouldn't give me much of a choice. He kept on rambling about boys my age, and how I'd make life-long and valuable connections once I was familiar with the language. He said he'd get me a French tutor for the holidays. I'd pick it up quickly, he said. And then he just went on and on about what he was going to do. He'd take me to Czechoslovakia next summer."

"Czechoslovakia," Paul repeated, not quite sure what to make of it.

"It's where he was born," Robert explained, apparently glad to switch topic. "His real name was Pavel Raban. He changed it after he immigrated because people couldn't memorize it. Raban became Rowan, and he adapted Chase for Czech."

"Hm. Did he ever talk about taking you to Europe before?"

"I knew they've had this sort of discussion before – whether I should be schooled abroad or not. My dad thought it was a good idea, but mum just hated it. She would laugh at my dad and tell him that he wanted to turn me into something posh. It came up every now and then, but it didn't really bother me until my father showed me the brochure."

"So they disagreed about your future education. Was there anything else they were arguing about?"

"No." Robert shrugged. "He was hardly ever home."

"What happened then? After he told you that he and your mother were getting a divorce?"

"He left the next morning. It didn't feel wrong. I mean, it did, in a way, but he'd be on and off since I remembered. More off, actually." Robert started to kick the table with his foot. It felt like a casual gesture, as if he was getting bored. "Look, I never really knew what it would be like to have him around. You can't miss something you've never had, right?"

"I'm not so sure about that," Paul said softly. "Have you ever heard of infants that don't get physical contact after they're born?"

"You mean like when they're premature and have to be put in those glass booths?"

"For instance, yes. Up until not so long ago, science dismissed the effects that it has on the infant. It was commonly believed that they were not yet conscious enough to actually miss their parents. But they do. They don't know what it's like to be held by a mother, or a father, and yet it is proven to be essential for normal development, even at this early age."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"It's just an image to make it clear to you. You can miss something even if you've never had it before. We all have needs. We crave respect, warmth, understanding; probably more so when we've never experienced it. It's human nature."

"I was talking about my father," Robert said, "You're talking about being fuzzy."

"Do you think those qualities equal being fuzzy?"

"They're not my father's, is all I'm saying", Robert huffed, suddenly annoyed, and grabbed his backpack. "Thanks for the sandwich."

Paul watched him walk out, leaving the door open as he went.


	5. False Accusations

_Day Four_

_Monday, 5:45 pm_

**False Accusations**

* * *

Even after years of practice, couple therapy made Paul feel uneasy at times.

People sitting next to each other on the couch, the gap between them as wide as possible, the strained expressions on their faces; it was something that Paul would never get used to. Why, he wondered, do people seek therapy when all they want is the other one to change?

It didn't matter how gently he would steer them to introspective, or how mildly he would suggest perceiving their problems with each other from a different angle; it hardly ever worked.

This couple, James and Bethany, had been his patients for the last five months, with little to none progress to their credits. Paul had to admit he got a little tired of their sessions, but they were persistent. Very much like two dogs fighting over a bone.

Paul sighed and forced himself to listen to Bethany's piercing voice.

"… so I did what you told me to do, expressing my frustration in a calm, reasonable manner, and the next morning he's forgotten about everything I said. I told him very clearly how it bothers me when he leaves the milk outside instead of putting it back into the fridge, and he still doesn't listen!"

"God, Beth, you should get checked for OCD."

"See what I mean?"

James ignored his wife effectively and with well-trained ease. "Can you imagine what it's like to have her nagging over nothing, day in, day out? It's like the _Odd Couple_ without a remote."

Paul leaned back in his chair, aware how his body language reflected his thoughts. It was a blessing that his patients hardly ever paid attention. Before he got a chance to speak, there was a demanding tap on the door.

"Excuse me," he said, wondering who it might be. The Gillespies were his last appointment for today, and he didn't expect any visitors. If it were the case, they would have used the front door.

A police officer stood on the threshold. Right next to him, with his eyes cast down, was Robert Chase, biting his lip and smelling of – whisky?

The officer's hand rested heavily on Robert's shoulder like he was taking away a delinquent. "Dr. Paul Weston?"

"Yes?"

"This young man here caused a bit of a commotion downtown. He gave us quite a hard time telling us who he is. He doesn't carry any papers with him, but he claims he lives here." The man squeezed Robert's shoulder, and even though he spoke in a grave voice, his eyes were sympathetic. "You want to tell your dad what happened, son?"

Robert remained silent, but his gaze met with Paul's for the blink of an eye. There was a fresh cut on his eyebrow, with a trace of dried blood smeared across his forehead. His coat was stained with liquids. The astringent stench of alcohol penetrated Paul's nose when Robert relocated his backpack over his shoulder, shifting uncomfortably. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Paul retreated from the door, allowing Robert to come in. Behind him, the Gillespies got up from the couch and gawked.

"What happened?" he asked the officer, and, acting on impulse, put his hand on Robert's shoulder. The boy tensed, but kept at his side.

"The owner of Broadway Liquors gave us a call this afternoon. He suspected your boy dusting off a few of his bottles. When he stopped him and asked for a look at his bag, the boy apparently ran into a shelf, dragging down a couple of Jake's finest vodkas with him. It turns out there was nothing in his belongings that shouldn't be there, but there was property damage, and your son refused to take liability. He also refused to answer questions about his identity. It took him some time at the station to come to his senses. Of course, there is the possibility of punitive charges against him, but since your boy seems to be a minor, Jake might drop the matter once the damage done is cleared."

"How much?"

The officer reached into his pocket and presented a list. "As I said, they were of the finest."

Paul glanced at the bill. He would never have thought how expensive a couple of broken bottles could be. "Tell the owner he'll have his money come next week."

"Whatever you say, Sir." The officer looked at Robert while addressing Paul. "If I were you, I'd give him a good whipping, and leave it at that. Looks like he's going through a rough patch already, with his mother and all. I trust you'll take care of it."

Paul had not the faintest idea what the officer was talking about, but he nodded all the same. "He's not going to be trouble again. Thank you for bringing him, Officer."

The man tipped his cap. "Good day, Sir."

The Gillespies left in a hurry, apparently eager to escape the drama of what they considered a family affair. Paul was glad they didn't ask questions, nor did they insist on finishing the last ten minutes of their session.

As soon as they were out of the door, Paul turned to check the boy's slashed eyebrow. It was a ghastly cut, but the bleeding had stopped some time ago. Robert jerked his head and shied away from the touch, a frown on his face. "I'm fine."

"Sit down. This needs to be taken care of."

"No. I'm fine," Robert insisted, in an obstinate voice, but seemed relieved to settle down on the couch. Paul noticed the boy's hands tremble when he unbuttoned his coat. "Thanks for saving me."

"So what happened?" Paul asked, returning with a wet cloth and a band aid from the first aid cabinet.

"What he said. I tripped and gloriously went down with a bunch of bottles."

"What were you doing in a liquor store, anyway? You know perfectly well they don't sell anything to a minor, don't you?"

"I didn't-… Ouch!" Robert flinched and stifled a whining sound. "I didn't go in there for a raid. I wasn't shoplifting, either. I just-… I don't know why I went there."

Paul finished cleaning the gash and pondered whether to tape it or not. Kate was good at such things, but Kate was in New York at her parents'. "You told me you were drunk when you fell off the balcony at the hotel. You assured me it was the first time it happened, and you said it would never happen again."

"You don't believe me?"

"Robert, I'm just wondering how to respond. An officer drops you at my place after you've told him that you live here. You lied to the police. You made them believe that you were my son. I understand that you're trying to avoid another confrontation with your dad, and that's why I went along. But I feel like you're using my trust in you to turn it against your father's authority over you, and I can't condone that."

Robert stiffened. He didn't look at Paul. After a long moment, he said: "He probably wouldn't have cared, anyway. He'd just sigh and send me off to see you. I think I actually spared him the time and effort."

"So you wanted to see me."

"Yes." Robert bit his bottom lip and gave Paul a sidelong glance from behind the curtain of his hair. "I don't know why. I just didn't want to go back and deal with what he was going to say."

"What do you think he was going to say?"

Robert shrugged. "Nothing, I s'ppose."

"That's not what you were thinking."

"Fine, then," Robert huffed. "I think he would have been angry, but without the yelling or the hand wringing. I think he would have told me to stop acting like a child, and he would give me that condescending look of his? I hate it when he does that."

"Do you think there would have been some sort of punishment?"

"He doesn't do that," Robert said. "Besides, what can he do? Lock me in a room? Send me off to bed without dinner? I'm through with this."

"What do you mean?"

Robert fumbled with the hem of his sleeves. He shifted in his seat before he spoke again. "I told you that everything was the same after my dad left. It wasn't. Well, at first I thought it was. I went to school, got home, did my homework. My mother was in the kitchen preparing lunch. She used to like to cook. She didn't have to, but she'd do it anyway. I was upstairs in my room when I heard her yelling at Buster – he's a cat," he explained, "my cat. He'd jumped on the counter. He'd do that sometimes. I tried to teach him not to, but-…"

"… cats being what they are," Paul finished helpfully.

"Yes. Anyway, he got in the way somehow, and she…" Robert exhaled deeply, "She took a swing at him. She still had the kitchen knife in her hand, and she'd hurt him. There was blood on his fur, and he screamed. Have you ever heard a cat screaming?"

Paul shook his head. "Did you see it happen?"

"No. I saw Buster scurrying out of the door and into the garden. My mother just stared at me. She looked shock-shelled, like she was frozen on the spot. Then she said something like: 'You better take care of your cat', and proceeded like nothing had happened. I ran outside to look for him. Couldn't find him. I kept searching for hours, but he was gone. Never saw him again."

"I'm very sorry."

Robert shrugged. "She never liked him. She kept saying she didn't like someone sneaking around the house."

"What do you think happened to Buster?"

"Don't know."

"Did you miss him much?"

"He was just a cat."

"It doesn't mean you can't get attached to him."

Robert hesitated before he spoke. "Honestly, I felt like she kicked him out. It felt like she'd done it on purpose. She said she was sorry, but I knew she didn't really mean it. She must have been glad when he was gone."

Paul wondered whether the boy subconsciously made a connection here. "It must have been a devastating experience, having to see your father moving out, and Buster gone in the same day. Do you remember what it felt like?"

"Not really." He shrugged again. "What's funny, though, I do remember my mother's cooking that day. We've had Chicken Tandoori. It used to be my favourite dish. She really wanted to do something nice, and she almost killed Buster as a result. I hope she didn't. I hope he got picked up by someone decent enough to take care of him. – I still used to pray back then," he added, looking at Paul with the apologetic expression on his face he had noticed on him before. "I asked for Buster to be safe and in good hands. It was all that mattered to me."

"I think it was a very reasonable request," Paul said gently.

"I shouldn't have let him into the kitchen. I forgot to feed him when I returned from school that day. I just forgot that he would be waiting for me. He always did. And I neglected him."

The sadness in those words tugged at Paul's heart. Robert spoke very matter-of-factly about the incident, detached almost, but Paul could still recognize the sense of guilt behind it. For the span of a moment, he felt the urge to put his arm around the boy, but refrained from doing so. Offering phrases would be just as useless, so he resorted to common sense. "I don't think you're responsible for what happened to Buster. You were ten years old, and your father had just left home the night before. You had every reason to be distracted."

"I guess." Robert glanced at his watch. "I should be going. My dad wants me to attend dinner with him and meet with some of his doctor friends." He got up and picked up his coat. When the stench of alcohol wafted in the air, he wrinkled his nose. "Ugh. I suppose people on the bus are going to avoid me."

Suddenly, an idea popped into Paul's head, and he carried it out before taking the time to think it over. "Why don't you leave your coat at my place? The smell will be gone by tomorrow, and you can pick it up later."

Robert gave him a sceptical look. "I'll freeze to death."

"My wife should be about your size. I'll see what I can find."

The boy looked mortified. "I'm not going to wear lady's clothes."

"I wouldn't ask you to. She's got a vintage leather jacket somewhere that used to be mine when I was" – _your age_, he wanted to say, but it wasn't really true. He had bought it when he was well over twenty. "… when I was a young man. It'll keep you warm, and it's not old-fashioned."

"It's wicked," Robert acknowledged when Paul returned back into the office and handed him the black motor cycle jacket. "I like it."

Paul didn't remember Kate actually wearing it in the past couple of years; it was impractical, with its short-cut waist and the fur-brimmed collar, and too broad for her in the shoulders. She probably just kept it for sentimental reasons.

He watched Robert putting it on, and checking out the material with the help of his fingers. The delight on his face was captivating. "It's a bloody fine jacket."

"Glad you like it. Just make sure you'll jam it into your bag when you reach the hotel. Your dad might ask questions." He sounded like they were partners in crime. Paul shook his head at himself in amusement, wondering what's gotten into him.

Robert stopped caressing the smooth structure of the leather, and looked up at him. "You're not gonna tell him about the liquor store?"

"I see no reason to."

"Not even when he calls you?"

"I'm going to tell him that we've had a nice, decent conversation." He got serious again, forcing himself to not fall for a sixteen year olds charm, "On one condition. I want you to be back tomorrow by six o'clock, and tell me more about the incident."

"I guess it's fair," Robert admitted, "With you going along and all. I owe you, right?"

"That you do."

"'kay." He shouldered his backpack, barely able to stop himself from admiring the jacket. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

"See you tomorrow," Paul said, opening the door for him.

"It can't be that old," Robert said, turning around at the porch before he left. "You're not old, and I bet you could still wear it if you hold your breath."

Paul chuckled. "I take that as a compliment."

"Thanks," Robert said.

As soon as he was gone, Paul, for the first time since Kate's and Ian's departure, felt a sense of loneliness.


	6. Getting to the Bottom of It

_Day Five_

_Tuesday, 6:10 pm_

**Getting to the Bottom of it**

* * *

Paul found himself checking the time for six o'clock to come, careful to not raise suspicion in his current patient.

He had never been keen on seeing a patient – well, not badly enough, anyway -, yet he realized that he was looking forward to meet young Robert Chase again. Strictly speaking, the boy wasn't a patient, but it occurred to Paul like he had a lot to say. He carried a burden with him that weighed him down, that much was obvious. He also shared the trauma of a divorce, and the untimely death of a parent at an early age.

To say that Paul was intrigued was probably an underestimation.

"Paul? Are you listening?" Sarah's voice sounded indignant. Which wasn't alarming really; it always did.

"Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. You seem kind of… preoccupied."

"What makes you think I am?"

"You've been kind of distant today. Is there something on your mind that doesn't have to do with me?" Sarah smiled cockily at him and clutched her bag. "I get it. Time's up. Enjoy your date."

Paul was stunned. "What date?"

"You've been looking at the clock behind me for the last quarter of an hour. So I'm assuming you're up to something, but you were too polite to throw me out. Is it a date?"

"No, Sarah, it's not a date."

"Good. Because it's hard enough to keep up with the fact that you're married."

She flirted with him, but he didn't really mind. Some of his female patients tended to fall in that sort of behaviour. He wasn't flattered, but it didn't put him off, either. He was professional enough to handle it.

Paul got up and walked her to the door. "I'll see you next week."

When he opened the door, Robert was already waiting on the bench at the porch. He was sporting the leather jacket, his head bare as opposed to the knitted cap he usually wore. His brow was neatly stitched up.

As soon as Sarah stepped outside, he put away a half-eaten Hot Dog in his lunch box, and greeted her with a polite nod of his head. Sarah presented her bare-teethed smile, and left.

"She's a bewdy," Robert said. "Does she have the hots for you?"

"Why would you say that?"

"The way she looked at you? Are you kidding me?"

Paul smiled. "You're very perceptive."

"Well, it's your job to be, not mine," he said, and slipped out of the jacket. "I meant to bring this back."

"Why don't you come in?"

"My dad wants me to be back at the hotel by half past seven. He said it's time to 'tighten the reins'. Who says that? I mean, it's not like I'm a pony or something."

"We still have time," Paul said. "You could finish your dinner inside if you like."

Inside the office, Robert sat down on the couch with his legs folded up underneath him. He still had the jacket on his lap, like some treasured possession that he wasn't ready to let go. Paul noticed that he looked more relaxed, like he was in a very good mood. Exceptional for a teenaged boy, he decided.

"So how did dinner with your dad go?" Paul asked, taking the opposite chair.

"He almost didn't take me, which would have been a blessing, actually. Of course, he had to make a fuss over the cut in my face. He stitched me up. See? Four stitches. There won't even be a scar. He said it would make me look like a pinhead. I suppose he was trying to be funny."

"Did you tell him how it happened?"

Robert scoffed. "Like hell I did. Well, I did, sort of. I told him I went to Rawlings Conservatory and accidentally walked into a cactus. I think he didn't really believe me."

"How could he let you get away with it? He's a doctor."

"Yeah, well. I told you he wouldn't care." Robert looked casually around the room. "You want to hear how dinner went?"

"Sure."

"It was more of a banquet, really. I had to put on my Sunday clothes; the stuff I used to wear for church? It was awful. I felt dressed up like a freaking clown. My father even made me to wear a tie. I swear I was being strangled by the bloody thing half of the evening."

It was hard to imagine him in a suit and with a tie. Paul knew from his own experience what those social events during medical conferences were like: boring most of the time, and way too much food and wine. "It doesn't sound like you've had a lot of fun."

"Oh, the food was great," Robert said. "They've had all this fancy stuff, like, when they carve plants and animal shapes in groceries and it's just for decoration? I scooped a watermelon that looked like a flowerpot or something. They served shrimps the size of my arm." He held out his arm and gestured in order to give Paul an idea. "Tasted like cotton balls drenched in salt water. Dessert was good, though. Something French, I think. Priscilla called it 'Crème Brulaay'."

He mocked a phony French accent, making Paul chuckle. "Who's Priscilla?"

"She's his new girlfriend. She's got this really amazing mass of red hair and dresses like a model? She's totally his type."

"Did your dad tell you that she's his girlfriend?"

"He didn't have to. I could tell by the way he wanted me to like her. He kept bragging about her contributions for his research analysis on JIA. At one point, he even patted her hand, like he was her proud uncle or something? It's obvious he's got a thing for her."

"JIA," Paul repeated, not quite sure what it stood for.

Juvenile idiopathic… something. I forget. It's something joint-related. Anyway, she's got a little tipsy as the evening was progressing. There was this combo playing schmaltzy tunes over and over. Eventually, she asked him to dance with her. He looked… I don't know, embarrassed. It was fun, actually."

"Why would he be embarrassed if a woman he's apparently fond of asked him for a dance? It's not that unusual, is it?"

Robert joggled his knees. "She was more than just a little bit tipsy, actually. She staggered around in her designer shoes, struggling for balance every ten seconds. Then she swooped a glass off a table, and one of the waiters had to clean up the mess she'd made. She couldn't stop giggling. My dad went crimson. He kept trying to make her slow down a bit, but she was perfectly hyper. It wasn't uncouth or something, more like she was being giddy. She was enjoying herself, is all."

"Why are you telling me this, Robert?"

He shrugged and kept on jiggling his knees. "You've asked me about dinner. So there."

"Did you have a drink last night?"

"No!" All of the sudden, he sounded defensive. The jiggling amplified. Then he said, quieter: "Of course not."

"There is another thing I wanted to ask you about. Do you remember what it was?"

"The liquor store disaster. Yeah, I recall."

"Do you think there might be a connection between what you choose to tell me about last night's event and what happened at the store yesterday?"

Robert shrugged. "Is there? You tell me."

"You mentioned Priscilla being more than a little bit tipsy. Your dad made an appointment because of an accident that you blamed on too much alcohol. You were detained by the police after an incident in a liquor store. Everything you told me so far is somehow linked to drinking issues. Why do you think that is?"

"Maybe because I'm Australian?" he suggested, his voice barbed with sarcasm. "You're familiar with the cliché, aren't you?"

"I am. In fact, we share it," Paul replied dryly.

Robert looked slightly amused. "Right, you're Irish. It's kind of hard to miss."

Paul watched him thoughtfully. He knew he was walking on thin ice here, but he also felt as though he was up to something that would be very significant. "You said your father seemed embarrassed when Priscilla acted the way she did. How did you feel about her behaviour, or his reaction?"

Robert squinted at him. "What is this, some sort of interrogation?"

"I'm just wondering why you would defend her. You clearly noticed that your father tried to make you to like her. It seemed to me like there was a change of attitude towards her when you saw her having a good time. It almost seemed like you respected her only after she managed to humiliate your father, whether it was intentional or not."

"I get a kick out of it," Robert said, deadpan, "Isn't it obvious?"

Paul ignored his wilful display of teenaged wit. "So how did you feel about Priscilla?"

"You mean if I felt threatened by her presence because she might replace my mother and become my stepmother? I wasn't bothered by that. My dad had his fair share of girlfriends after he left us. He introduced me to Denise when I was thirteen. She even lived with him at his house at Armadale for quite a while. Long auburn hair, tanned skin, and legs that went up to her chin. I liked her. I mean, who wouldn't?" He grinned.

"But you didn't like Priscilla. Not until she 'enjoyed herself', as you put it."

Robert slumped back into the cushions and glared at him. "Do we really have to talk about her?"

"You can talk about anything you want."

"She looked old," Robert said after a moment of consideration, "Wasted. She'd put on too much make-up, and her hair was dyed. It had this weird shade that makes your hair look dull. She told me she was thirty-three when I asked her, but it was probably a lie. She couldn't have been, not with all the merits to her medical career. They never tell you the truth about their age, do they?"

"I guess that's why you should never ask in the first place."

"I was being rude, I get it," he said, running a hand through his hair. "My dad didn't approve. He said I was being monosyllabic and inattentive, which by the way is his way of saying what a bleeding loser he's fathered."

"Maybe it's his way to tell you that he expected you to be more involved. He might have thought that, by introducing you to his colleagues at the banquet, he'd given you an opportunity to build up connections."

"But I don't want him to! I don't need him to plan a professional career for me. I've been doing without him for five years. He can't just walk in again and pretend like nothing's ever happened!"

"Would you like to tell me about what happened, Robert?"

The boy exhaled deeply. He stared at the jacket in his lap like he hadn't even noticed it had been there all the time. Meticulously, he put it aside across the armrest, and reached for his bag. "It's late. I got to go."

"I can call your father at the hotel if you like. Tell him you're at my place so he doesn't have to worry," Paul suggested.

Robert huffed. "Like he'd give a crap. You still don't get it, do you?"

"What do I not get? I'd like to understand what makes you so angry, but I can't unless you tell me what it is."

Robert looked around the office. "Where's my coat?"

Paul got up and went to fetch it from the laundry. When he handed Robert the coat, he sniffled. "You washed it."

"I had to. The smell wouldn't leave."

"I figured." He put it on, struggling a bit with his injured arm. Paul lent him a hand without making it too obvious.

When he was set to go, Robert reached into his bag, presenting a neatly folded pack of dollar notes.

"No, no, no," Paul said, and closed his fingers around the boy's. They were cold as ice. "Keep it."

Robert looked at him in bewilderment. "Why? I'm willing to pay you for your time. Isn't that how it usually works?"

"This was-…" Paul cleared his throat, not sure if he was about to do the right thing. "This is different. I didn't receive you as a patient. You didn't have to come if it hadn't been for the jacket."

Robert glanced at the object in question sprawled on the couch. "It's a really nice jacket."

"It looked fine on you. Very grown-up, too."

Robert swallowed hard and avoided Paul's gaze. "I got to go."

"My father left when I was fifteen," Paul heard himself say. He didn't know why, he just felt like he needed to. The words came out like they'd had been suppressed for too long, but he didn't care. He'd choke on them if he held back any longer. "For five years, I was stuck with my mother. I thought my life was over as well as hers. My father never showed up again. I'm not even sure if I wish he would have."

Robert glanced up at him. There was suspicion in his eyes, and barely concealed disdain. "But it gets better, right?"

"It doesn't," Paul said, "You just learn to live with it."

Robert hesitated. His fingers squeezed the notes in his hand. "What happened to her?"

"She died," Paul said. "I was in the middle of my medical exams, and she died."

For a long moment, there was absolute, deafening silence.

The boy stiffened. Neither of them moved. Paul could hear the humming of the heater system. He could hear the drumming of his own heartbeat. His throat tightened, and he silently started to curse himself.

_This is wrong on so many levels. This is where you're fucking up big time. Never sympathize with a patient. Never get emotionally involved. And never, ever try to manipulate them into something they're not ready for. Paul Weston, you're a lousy therapist, and an outright fool as it is. _

Finally, Robert took one step back. He was pale as a sheet, but his voice sounded steady as he spoke. "I have to go."

Paul withstood the urge to hold him back. He watched Robert searching his bag for the knitted cap to pull it over his hair, and then he was heading for the door. Before he left, he turned around. "My dad saw the jacket. I couldn't bring myself to stuff it into the bag before he'd notice. You know what he said?"

"What?" Paul asked.

"He scolded me for losing my Burberry." He smiled. "Like I'd give a crap."

Paul returned the smile.

Robert wiggled his fingers for a goodbye, and then he was gone.


	7. A Safe Place

_Day Six_

_Wednesday, 9:30 pm_

**A Safe Place**

* * *

"So tell me about your week. How's it been going so far?"

Kate's voice was coming from across the ether, and although New York wasn't far away, Paul realized that he suddenly wished she would be here next to him in person. Five days alone in the house, and he missed her already.

"Nothing to talk about, really. I bet Christmas shopping with your mother is way more exciting."

She laughed that raunchy, breathless laugh that he loved so much on her. "You'd hate it. – You haven't set the house on fire yet, or flooded it? The washing machine needs some serious fixing."

"It's working just fine," he said.

She chortled. "Wait, are you telling me you're doing your own laundry?"

"Not my own. A patient's. Well, he's not actually a patient. He spilled something on his coat, and I offered to help him out."

"Why do I suddenly wish I was some sort of a patient's of yours, too?" Kate teased. "Who is he?"

"He's the son of an M.D. who visits for a conference here in Baltimore. The boy is sixteen years old, smart, extremely independent. He's a bright kid. Very mature for his age. His father sent him to see me after he jumped off the hotel balcony and into the pool."

"Very mature indeed." Kate paused. "He's suicidal?"

"I don't think so. He lost his mother, presumably not too long ago. He wouldn't tell me."

"But you're working on it."

Paul sighed and rubbed his face. "He's not a patient. He's supposed to attend the lectures with his father in order to learn the ropes, but goes walking around town all day instead. It seems like he has a dangerous talent to get himself into all sorts of trouble. Yesterday he flew into a case of bottles at some liquor store. I had to bail him out by pretending I was his father. He told the police he'd live with me."

"Oh, Paul," She laughed, "You and your knack for rebellious teenagers. I fear for Ian already."

"I know what you're thinking. You should have seen him. He looked terrified. Not because of what's happened, but because of his father. The man seems to put a lot of pressure on the boy, and he's not even aware of it. You know what he did after his mother died? Put him into a private school and bought him new clothes because his old ones weren't decent enough. He told me flat out that the mother wasn't capable to take care of their son. They've been divorced for several years, he hardly ever showed up, and now he has the guts to blame her for doing a bad job with the boy."

"Wow," Kate said, "looks like it really hit a nerve, right?"

"It did," Paul admitted. "I felt like we somehow connected. Not so much through common experience – we barely addressed the issue -, but by the way he kept coming back. I honestly felt like he wanted it. His father is a stranger to him. Robert constantly makes a point of how he doesn't care for what's going on in his life, and from what I've observed, I have to believe him. He wants him to become a doctor. It doesn't matter that Robert doesn't agree with him. He won't even listen to him."

"Robert. That's his name, then?"

"Yes. He's Australian. His father emigrated from Czechoslovakia some time ago. – Anyway. Robert made some interesting observations about therapy. Apparently, his mother used to see a psychiatrist. He asked me if patients would have some sort of an emotional breakdown as a rule. The next moment, he tells me that his mother used to feel better after a session at her therapist's. He then assured me that he didn't need therapy because, in his opinion, it was exclusively for screwed-up people who don't get along with their lives."

"Did you get to ask him about his mother? If he thinks she was a screwed-up person, then it's probably worth exploring."

"That's what I thought," Paul confirmed, and sighed. "We didn't get that far. In fact, I doubt I'll ever hear from him again."

"How's that?" Kate asked.

"He came back for his coat last night. He told me about dinner he'd attended with his dad, making a point of his father's new girlfriend who apparently had more than the decent amount of wine. It amused him, but at the same time, it seemed to frighten him."

"Did he talk about it?"

"No. Yet the way he described her, in her particular state, it seemed like he knew perfectly well what he was talking about. I don't know, Kate. I felt like he was about to say something very important, and then I ruined it."

"Tell me."

"I think he felt like I was siding with his father. And then he just shut down again and went into flight mode. To make things even worse, I told him about my mother. Can you believe it? I never let patients know anything about my personal life, and I told him I'd lost her when I was his age, just like that."

Her voice remained quiet for a couple of seconds. Then she said: "Not just like that, Paul. You chose to tell him because you wanted to reassure him. Make him understand that he's not alone in this."

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore," Paul said. "He didn't show up tonight. Maybe he's already back on his way to Australia."

"Paul, I'm really sorry."

"You know what's bugging me? I really felt like I could reach out to him. I felt like he needed time to learn how to trust another human being; to realize that it is possible to actually trust someone. I don't think he's ever experienced that. And I blew it."

"You didn't," Kate said. "You were invested; you listened to what he had to say. You grew fond of him, and I'm sure he felt that, too."

"Thanks," Paul said, after a long moment of stillness between them. "Give Ian a kiss from me, will you?"

"He's asleep. I'll let him know in the morning." Kate blew a soft kiss through the line. "Good night, Paul."

"Good night, darling."

He listened to the beeping sound of the phone after she hung up, and finally broke the connection. A glass of Bourbon and a few hours of mindless TV would do him good. He was just about to get comfortable in the living room when the door bell rang.

It was Robert. He wasn't wearing his coat, and he didn't have his backpack with him, either. Snowflakes were melting in his hair and on his sweater, and he looked as though he'd been crying.

"Robert. Are you okay?"

Robert sniffed, but said nothing. Paul urged him in, gently steering him through the waiting room and into the office. "Please sit down. I'll fix you a cup of tea, is that okay? – Please," Paul motioned towards the couch, worried by the boy's vacant expression. "Sit. I'll be right back."

"We had a fight," Robert said, in a dull voice. "Well, not exactly. More of a grown-up conversation, as he'd like to put it. I couldn't listen to him any longer. So I just-… I left. I ran out on him and into the streets. I didn't know where else to go."

"What were you having a conversation about?" Paul asked, placing the tea mug in front of him.

"The usual." Robert shrugged. "He's always so bloody rational. He never gets into a fight. He won't even argue. He just tells me what to do, and I'm fucking sick of it."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"No." He looked at Paul, his hands palming the cup. "I want to hear about your mother."

It had been a mistake to tell him, and yet Paul couldn't blame him for bringing it up. He settled down onto the sofa next to Robert, aware that he was crossing boundaries, again. He'd never sit next to a patient. "What would you like to know?"

"How did she die?"

Paul cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible. "She was diagnosed bi-polar a few years prior to her death. Once the diagnosis was established, my father put her into a nursing facility. She managed to get her hands on sleeping pills. They found out later that she was hoarding and hiding them in her mattress."

A few moments of silence passed until Robert spoke again. "Did you know she was ill?"

"I suspected that something was wrong sometimes, yes. She… she behaved peculiar at times, but you must understand that her illness was not as acknowledged as it is today. She had mood swings, and she would go from heightened activity to deepest depression within the span of an hour. It was pretty hard to keep up with her. I'd never know which part of her it would be when I returned from school. I used to pray on my ride home on the bus that she'd have a good day, even if it meant to indulge her ideas, and going along with them. It was better than to find her still in bed by afternoon."

"What was she like, your mum?"

"She was a beautiful woman," Paul simply said, "Inside and out."

"You got a photo of her or something?"

"Sure." Paul got up and returned with a framed picture from his desk.

Robert looked at it with open interest. "You have her eyes. And hair." He handed the frame back to Paul. "I have a picture of my mother with me. Wanna see it?"

"I'd be honored to."

He fumbled for his wallet, going through a clutter of credit cards in its folding. When he pulled out a photograph, he did it with utmost care, and Paul took it with the appropriate display of respect.

It was worn out and brittle and felt soft under his fingertips. The cut-sized Polaroid showed a young woman sitting on the edge of a pool, with a boy clinging to her leg in the water. She was wearing a bathing suit and a straw hat to protect her against the sun. She looked Grace Kelly-like, with her flawless complexion and the soft waves of her blonde hair hanging around her swan-like neck and the delicate line of her shoulders.

They both smiled into the camera. Paul could distinguish the gap between the child's front teeth, giving away his tender age.

"You both look very happy."

"Hm." Robert tucked the Polaroid away in his pocket. "She wasn't sick. It was good as long as my dad was still with us. He ruined everything."

"By leaving you and your mum."

"I think maybe he was seeing someone else; someone from the hospital, perhaps." Robert sipped on his tea, and frowned. "Or maybe he just got bored with family life. Mum always told me he loved his work much more than he enjoyed being with us. He'd always be working when it mattered. Christmas, birthdays, any sort of family gathering; he used to sweep in and out like a visitor. He'd always have some urgent cases that required his immediate attention."

"Would you say his absence made you feel closer to your mother?"

Robert glanced at him. "Did it happen with you?"

"I felt responsible for her, yes. I was the man in the house after my father left. Of course, there was Patrick – my brother-, but he'd be out with his friends all day, playing on the field, practicing his sports. He was older, and already had a girlfriend."

"I had a girlfriend," Robert said, "Heather. She was awesome. We used to hang around town or went to the beach together to catch some waves. She was really good at it, too."

"Sounds like fun. Why did you two break up?"

"Why would you assume we did?"

"You spoke about her in past tense. So I figured it didn't last."

Robert hedged a bit before he came out with an answer. "She… she wanted to have sex."

"Oh."

"It's not what you think," Robert hastened to say. "I wasn't opposed, it was just-… She wanted to do it at my parent's house. She knew it from the outside, and she really admired it. It's old, with lots of brick walls and mahogany and a flight staircase. My parents crammed it with gimmicks and furniture from God knows what centuries past. I told her once that it looks like a museum, and she really hit on that. She asked me what my room looked like, and if she could come and see it. She thought it was unreal to have a whole floor for oneself, and asked me to prove it by inviting her over. She thought it would make a nice opportunity for us to get it on. Said if she'd lose her virginity, she might as well lose it in silk sheets. – I don't know where she got the idea from. Anyway, I couldn't let her come over. Not with-…"

"Not with… what?" Paul prompted quietly, noticing Robert's sudden unwillingness to go on.

"I don't know. It just didn't feel right at the time."

"It's an awful lot of responsibility for a young person to decide where and when to have sex for the first time," Paul offered, observing the boy closely. "Perhaps you didn't feel ready for it, and felt pressured by Heather."

"It wasn't her fault," Robert said. "I wanted it, I really did. But to think that she'd be there, in our house, I couldn't-…" He swallowed and cleared his throat. "I tried to talk her into doing it at her place. She shares a bedroom with her sister, so that didn't go down too well with her. She got real shirty, you know, like she'd keep calling me names and how fucked in the head I was with all the money coming out of my arse? I mucked it up big time. We've had a fight. I think she pushed me, and I was pushing her back, and then she slapped me as hard as she could. I asked her to stop, honest I did, but she kept on hitting me, and then, I don't know why, I hit her back." He bit his bottom lip and kept his gaze fixed on the carpet. "She started screaming. Mr. Kaminsky – the teacher on duty during recess – came running and grabbed me, grabbed me real hard and pulled me away, and I remember thinking he was going to break my arm. It bloody hurt, like he'd actually _wanted_ it to hurt. And I kept thinking it was alright, that it was good to hurt because I've hurt Heather as well."

Paul let the words sink in for a minute. "Did you tell your parents?"

"Mr. Kaminsky summoned me to the headmaster's office, Mrs. Babcock," Robert said. "She'd sent me home with a letter, but not before telling me how disappointed she was in me, and that she wanted to talk to my mother. I used to get into brawls before. It's something that happens, right? But never with a girl. I never hit a girl before."

Paul touched his lips with his fingertips. "Would you say there is a certain potential of violent behaviour in you that you sometimes feel hard to control?"

"It's a normal thing, isn't it?" Robert retorted. "That's why boys are picking up fights in the first place, right?"

"You're right." Paul waited patiently until Robert seemed to calm down a little. "What I'm trying to understand is why the act of violence is so significant to you. You let out your anger at Heather, which you knew was wrong, but I think she provoked you a great deal before it happened. She put you into an impossible situation. You were trying to protect your privacy against her, and she wouldn't stop pressing the subject. She wanted you to come to the same conclusion as she did; that it was a good idea to go to your parent's house, and that it would be great to sleep together while you both happened to be there."

"It _was_ a good idea," Robert insisted, in an almost comical response.

"From her point of view, it probably was. And you were running out of arguments why you didn't go along with her. So you resorted to physical violence."

"I'm not that of a jerk," Robert said in a stifled voice, "I would never hurt her on purpose."

"I know that." Paul gently rubbed the boy's back. Robert didn't retreat, and Paul placed his hand between his shoulder blades. "Were there consequences of any kind?"

Robert wiped his nose with his sleeves. "Like what?"

"Did Mrs. Babcock have that talk with your mother?"

"She did, over the phone. My mother called her the same afternoon. She-… she wouldn't talk to me about it. When she came up in my room after, she merely told me what a useless piece of work she thought I was, and that was it."

"That must have been hurtful."

Robert shrugged. "Not really."

"Do you remember how you felt when she said this to you?"

"No. I remember her walking downstairs and back into her room. She'd slam the door shut. I figured that she wanted to be alone. So did I. It was kind of ideal."

"Were you worried about her?"

Robert gazed at him in bewilderment. "Why would I be worried?"

"I know I would have been," Paul said. "My mother used to slam doors all the time. It never stopped worrying me." He paused. "You want to hear a secret?"

"Mh-hm."

"Whenever I hear a door slammed down in this house, I get so anxious that it's giving me a physical reaction. That's why I always leave them open."

Robert glanced at the solid wooden door and back at Paul again. "This one isn't."

"Because this is a safe place. It locks out the outside world; at least as long as you wish it to. You can come any time you want. It'll be open for you."

Robert placed back his mug onto the coffee table. His expression didn't give anything away, but he inhaled deeply, and sighed as he exhaled. "I should be getting back. It's really late."

"Is your dad going to be up and waiting for you?"

"I doubt it," Robert said. "He's probably shagging Priscilla while we're talking. She's staying at the same hotel. Convenient."

"I could drive you if you like," Paul offered.

"No, thanks." Robert stifled a yawn. "Can I borrow your jacket? I'll return it first thing in the morning. I promise."

"It's fine."

Paul walked him to the door. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive you back to the hotel?"

"I'll be fine." Robert huddled into the jacket and turned up the collar before he stepped out into the cold. Out of nowhere, he said: "Do you pray, Paul?"

It was the first time he was using the informal name, but to hear this question from him was a bit more of a shock than hearing his given name out of his mouth. "Why do you ask?"

"I used to," Robert said. "It's a safe place, too."

"You mean the church?"

"Not the church. Prayer." He glanced at the dim-lit street. "I thought maybe you'd understand."

"M-hm. I guess I do."

"Good night, Paul."

"Goodbye, Robert. See you tomorrow."


	8. An Unexpected Move

_Trigger Warning: Chapter contains self-harm_

* * *

_Day Seven_

_Thursday, 5:55 pm_

**An Unexpected Move**

* * *

Robert didn't show up the following morning as he had promised. Paul found himself distracted. He caught himself glancing out of the window several times during sessions, which thankfully went unnoticed. By noon, he was ready to call at the hotel, but realized he didn't even know where the conference took place. Rowan hadn't left a forwarding number, either.

Paul walked his last patient for the day to the door when he noticed an SUV parking in front of the house. Did he miss something? No, Mr. Buchanan had been the last slot; Paul was pretty sure about that. Someone new, perhaps? Potential patients usually called before they made an appointment.

Paul felt a surge of relief when he saw Robert dashing out of the car and heading towards him.

"Told you I'd be back," he said. "Sorry I couldn't make it any sooner. I wanted to, but Russell insisted on meeting with June first and settle in, and then he said he'd drive me back into town but there was some emergency at the hospital, so I had to wait for him there-…"

"Hold your fire," Paul said, raising both hands in good-natured mock defeat. "Maybe you'd like to come in and give me the heads-up?"

"I guess I should." Robert grinned. "Sorry. Russell is a doctor. He's the guy you saw in the car. I met him at the conference. My dad introduced me to him because he was one of those 'valuable connections' he wanted me to make?" He gestured the quotation marks. "He works at John Hopkins. He's teaching rheumatology; it's the same specialty as my dad's. I asked him if he could find me a place to stay at campus, but he wouldn't hear about it. He and June – his wife – are living nearby, and they've got a big house. Their daughter has moved to California a few months ago to go to UCLA, so they have a room to spare. I moved in today."

Paul was still at a loss. "You moved in with your dad's friends?"

"It's just for a week or so," Robert said, flopping onto the sofa. Getting aware of the puzzled expression on Paul's face, he went on to explain. "I told you I've had this argument with my dad? It was the night before we'd fly back to Oz. I asked him to cancel my flight."

"Why?"

Robert shrugged. "Didn't feel like going home. Anyway, he got this really annoyed face, with the forced smile and everything? He said he wouldn't cover my expenses just because I wanted to extend my holidays. He also made a pretty strong point of me being too young to stay on my own, and that he wanted me to study for the exams coming up. He was really pissing me off. I said a few things that I probably shouldn't have, and he got all waxy about it. He doesn't do that often, but last night, I thought he was going to slap me. I walked out of the room and left."

"That was before you decided to come to my place."

"Yes."

"So how-… how did this happen with Russell and…"

"June. Russell and June Turner, that's them. - See, I went back to the hotel and into my suite where I started packing. Russell had given me his card. I had it in my pockets somewhere. It slipped out and landed on the floor. It was like a sign. When I picked it up, I suddenly knew what to do. I called him. It was late, so I thought chances were good he would be home. His wife was on the phone. She said Russell was still at the hospital, but she'd given me the number where to reach him. The rest was easy."

"What was?" Paul asked, still not sure what to make of it.

"I asked him if he could get me an internship at Hopkins. Obviously he couldn't, with the holidays coming up and me not being a med student, but he promised he'd work something out. He offered to take me to classes with him, attend the lectures, maybe even getting me a job at the pharmacy; nothing major, just errand work. I told him it was exactly what I was looking for." He paused and squinted. "You look shocked."

"I-… I don't know what to say, really. You arranged an internship at JHU all by yourself?"

"It's not an internship. Russell said he'd show me around. He said campus wouldn't really be an option for it was crammed like hell, but he'd gladly offer me his daughter's room if I didn't mind William Morris tapestries undermined with magazine posters of Nirvana." He pulled up his legs and crossed them casually, looking very pleased with himself. "So it's going to be Baltimore for another few days, a family life for a change, and Kurt Cobain watching me in my sleep. Of course there'll be the inevitable odd job and a couple of boring hours at the lecture hall, but I think I can handle it."

Paul watched him thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "You said being a doctor is the last thing you'd want."

"Um, well. We all have to bring sacrifices now and then."

"Your father must have been very surprised when you told him."

Robert placed his bag between his legs and pulled a chocolate bar from its content. "He was. That was the whole point, don't you see?"

"To be honest, I don't quite follow you."

"I can see that." Robert tore the wrapping off the bar. "Look, my dad wouldn't allow me to stay on my own, so I had to find me an ally. It's what I did. It worked. He couldn't object. I was – giving him a taste of his own medicine, is that the expression?"

Smart kid, Paul thought. "I think you could say so, yes."

"He kept on hammering me about how I didn't give a damn. Now that I do, he's got no reason to complain any longer. He drove me to the Turner's place this morning and dropped me off on his way to the airport. You know what he said to me before he left?"

"No, you tell me."

"He said if things went well, he might get me an actual internship at the Royal come next autumn. It's the hospital he's working at in Melbourne." Robert snorted. "It's not going to happen."

"Why?"

"Because I'm so not planning to do what he wants me to do."

"You just did."

"I've got my reasons."

Paul leaned back in his chair. "It seems like you're undergoing a lot of effort to keep up this sort of deception."

"I wouldn't call it deception. Besides, he won't know."

"Don't you think you're being a little unfair here? You make your father believe that you've taken a sudden interest in his profession when, in fact, you just wanted to extend your stay in the States."

Robert looked vaguely confused for a moment. "I just need some time for myself, is all."

"You really couldn't tell him? Maybe he'd given you space if you asked him to."

The boy was shifting in his seat, avoiding eye contact. Paul suddenly felt regret for what he just said. He had seen enough of Rowan Chase to understand that he wasn't the kind of man who allowed space even to his own son. The relationship was strained, probably tainted already, and Rowan must have had his share in this.

Paul kept silent for a while, waiting for Robert to speak again. When he did, he caught Paul by surprise. "Where's the kitchen?"

"Upstairs," Paul said, curious what this was going to be about.

"Can I use it?"

This was the weirdest request he'd ever heard from a patient. _He's not a patient_, Paul reminded himself. It wasn't against his principles if he didn't consider Robert Chase an actual case. Still, he asked: "Why would you want to use my kitchen?"

"Because" – Robert reached into his bag and presented a ball-shaped object wrapped up in mushy paper -, "I went shopping before Russell picked me up on his way back. There was this deli downtown, with all this seafood on display. I got me some prawns. They're the best. I need to store them in a fridge before they turn stale."

For a serious moment, Paul contemplated whether it was wise to allow the boy access to the private area of the house. Then, another thought occurred to him. "Don't you have to go to the Turner's house for supper?"

"I told Russell I would be late, and he said it was fine. – They know where I am," he added. "You don't happen to be hungry, do you?"

Paul felt his lips curl into a smile. As a matter of fact he was, and he was tired of omelette and toasted bread. "Why do I have the feeling that you planned all this?"

"I did," Robert confessed, producing a can of sliced water chestnuts and a frozen package of snow peas from his bag. "I brought some ginger as well, and button mushrooms. Do you have garlic?"

* * *

It was quite amazing to see the boy move about in the kitchen.

He was preparing a fresh meal with practiced ease, casually chatting about proteins and vitamins while he prepared a bowl of green salad mixed with various vegetables that he randomly took from the fridge. Paul went to chopping the fixings since Robert had difficulty to do it himself, with his injured arm still in a medical sling. While listening to Robert's profound monologue on food, he remembered Rowan mentioning a nutritionist he'd hired for Robert to learn how to eat properly. It didn't make sense at all.

The result was impressive. Paul could not resist a second helping. Robert beamed with pride. "It's good, innit?"

"It's delicious. I can positively say that this is the best curry I've ever had in my life. Where did you learn to cook like that?"

"I got myself a bunch of books from the library. I copied the recipes that didn't take more than thirty minutes, and tried them out. Well, not all of them. I skipped the red meat ones. They take too much effort, and the stuff is pretty yucky to prepare. She always loved chicken, though, and fish, so I'd do that a lot. Fresh fruit, too. It's good for your health."

"You're talking about your mother. Did you use to cook for her?"

"Sometimes," Robert said. "You want some more?" he offered.

"I'd love to, but thanks. I'm stuffed." Paul patted his stomach. "Thank you for the meal. It's much appreciated. You did a wonderful job."

"It was fun preparing it."

"Most sixteen year old boys wouldn't take much interest in cooking. It's remarkable that you do." When Robert kept silent, Paul decided to share another detail of his life with him. "I used to cook for my mother, too; just like you did."

"Really?" Robert was intrigued.

"Mm-hm. I used to cook all these elaborate meals for her. I guess I was hoping that, by doing the right thing, it would make her feel better."

"But it didn't."

"She'd barely look at it." Paul took a slice of bread and broke it in half in order to leisurely scoop up the leftovers of the gravy. "It wasn't that she didn't appreciate it. But I sometimes felt like she couldn't even muster the energy to eat. There were times when she wouldn't get out of bed for days, so I would make her chicken soup. You could say I'm an expert on chicken soup, if nothing else." Paul watched Robert dropping his fork, staring into the vacant space. Gently, he said: "You haven't eaten much."

"I'm not hungry." He got up and started to collect the dishes.

"You don't have to do that," Paul said. "I'll do it in the morning."

The moment he finished talking, Robert started to sob. He did his best to hold it back, making it worse, and painful to see. Paul got up, realizing that something was going on. When he was close enough to touch, Robert turned and buried his face in Paul's shoulder.

At first, Paul was unsure what to do despite years of experience. He suddenly realized how fragile the boy felt under his comforting hands. His hair smelled of shampoo, and was soft to the touch like a child's. He was barely more than that, a child. Paul shushed into his hair, rocking him gently in a soothing embrace. When the sobbing ebbed, Paul took him by the shoulders to look at him. "What is it?" He spoke softly, almost in a whisper.

Robert wiped his face. "Don't know."

"It's okay to feel sad. You don't have to be strong all of the time, you know."

"I'm not sad. I just-… I don't know what's gotten into me. Sorry."

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

Robert sniffed. "Can we go back into your office? I kind of like it in there."

"Sure."

As they walked down the stairs, Paul noticed that Robert had taken the leather jacket with him. He didn't let go of it until he sat down at the couch again, placing it carefully next to him on the cushions.

"She hated it," Robert said without preamble. "She never liked cooking, and she stopped doing it altogether after my father was gone. I would come home from school and there was nothing to eat. She got angry when I complained. She called me a demanding brat with nothing on his mind but his own needs. Then she'd put a pizza into the microwave, and she'd watch me eat with this look on her face, like I was disgusting her or something? I remember choking at one point because a bite got stuck in my throat. I'd throw up all over the table, and she got furious. She'd never been mad at me before. I mean, she wasn't overly lenient, but it was usually my dad who went all authoritarian when it came to parenting. I guess he wanted to make up for my mother's laxity when he showed up because he'd always be strict with me. He wasn't as easy as mum. She'd use to laugh it off when I got home with bad grades or when I tore my trousers. She wasn't authoritarian with me, ever."

"Getting angry at a hungry child is not what I'd call authoritarian," Paul said, "It seemed more like she was over-reacting to something; like she was lashing out at you for no apparent reason."

"Maybe." Robert shrugged. "Anyway, she got really mad. It was the first time I realized that something was terribly wrong. She started to yell at me. I yelled back at her. I said dad might well have left because she was too lazy to fill up the fridge or something. I think I might have brought up Buster, too. How she had probably killed him and that I'd never forgive her if she had."

"When exactly did that happen?"

"I suppose it was the week after he moved out."

"So things between you and your mother got a bit complicated."

Robert didn't respond. He sat perfectly still - no knee joggling this time -, and stared down at his restless hands.

"What happened after the-… the argument?" Paul asked.

"She sent me up to my room. It wasn't difficult to sneak out of the house, though. When I came back in the evening, she wasn't there. She'd gone on a shopping spree instead. I heard her driving the car into the garage a few hours later. She came upstairs and gave me a blue jumper she'd found at Benetton's. It was too small, like she'd bought it for a six year old. The thing was atrocious. I secretly hated it, but she insisted I'd try it on. It didn't fit, naturally. She just said: 'You're growing too fast' and that she'd return it to the store first thing in the morning. I remember thinking how disappointed she looked when she said that. I remember feeling like shit."

"Why?"

"She tried to make up to me. And I ruined it for her."

Paul could relate, and he felt sorry for the boy. "My mother used to knit me clothes until I was fourteen," he said.

"For real?"

"Mh-hm. She'd knit sweaters and hats and scarves, you name it. I used to hide them in the depths of my drawers. One day she decided to clean my room while I was at school. She discovered the clothes. I was horrified to find them neatly stacked on the sideboard when I got home. You know what she said to me?"

"What?"

"She asked me why I'd never said a word about how little I liked wearing them." Paul decided to embroider the story in his mother's favour. "She never knitted another sweater for me again."

"You're saying that communication is the key," Robert suggested, albeit reluctantly.

"Did you and your mother ever sat down and had a conversation about how you both felt after your dad had left the house for good?"

"I tried to ask her why he'd left us; two, maybe three times. She locked me up in his study when I wouldn't stop pestering her with questions."

"Sounds like you two had a pretty rough time."

"Yeah, I guess." Robert glanced up. "It doesn't answer your question, does it?"

Paul smiled, but it was a sad smile. "You're right. It doesn't."

Robert took a deep breath, as though he was bracing himself. "She didn't have to tell me how she felt. I knew. I saw her. I watched her slowly disappear, little by little. She changed. She didn't go to church with me anymore. She stopped visiting with her friends. They'd drop by occasionally, but that stopped, too, eventually. There was nothing I could do about it. I just-… stood there and watched it happen."

"There was no way you could have prevented it," Paul said softly, painfully aware of his own guilt and torment over his mother's decay when he had been Robert's age.

"Your mother was mentally deranged. Mine wasn't," Robert huffed, twisting the medical sling around his shoulder into a tangled mess. "She didn't have to-… It shouldn't have happened to her."

Tears sprang into his eyes, and he blinked rapidly. Initially, Paul thought it was grief, but then realized that the boy was purposely hurting himself by putting strain on his injured arm. There was a streak of self-destructiveness in Robert's behaviour that Paul found very alarming. "Please stop it."

Robert looked up sharply. "What did I do?"

Paul gestured at the sling. With a sigh, Robert loosened his grip. His body slackened as he slumped back into the cushions. "I hate him," he said. "I hate him for leaving us behind. It was his fault. He could have stayed. He should have."

"Did your father ever talk to you about the reason why he left?"

Robert scoffed. "Are you serious? He still treats me like an imbecile. Even if he had, I bet it would have been a load of crap."

Paul considered Rowan's motivation to leave for a moment. Paul's own father had run off with a much younger patient of his. For a long time, Paul couldn't understand it. There must have been love between his parents. As far as he remembered, they had been devoted to each other as much as a couple could have been; always accounting on the fact that John Weston had been a very busy man. Things had been good, at least for the most part of Paul's early childhood. When his mother's illness had presented, things got out of hand. Paul couldn't forgive his father for leaving, but some part of him was ready to understand. Out of his train of thought, he asked: "Did they argue a lot, your parents?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." Paul watched Robert thoughtfully. "What would you like to talk about, then?"

"Have you ever seen a dead person?"

Paul flinched inwardly, but kept outwardly calm. "Have you?"

"My mother," he said, his eyes firmly fixed on Paul's face. "I found her in her bedroom. She lay there like a puppet with the strings cut off. She looked like she was… scattered all over the place, somehow. I couldn't believe it was her. I thought, for some crazy reason, that she went out and had left a doll that looked like her on the floor, just to scare me." He swallowed hard, finally showing a trace of conflicting emotions. His voice was brittle when he continued. "We've had an argument the night before. I don't remember the reason. We'd argue over a lot of pointless things in-… during the last weeks. I think she-…" He trailed off.

"Go on," Paul said softly.

"I remember her asking me to sit the night with her. She'd sometimes do that when I was little. Why would she bring this up now, I remember thinking, and it annoyed the heck out of me. We've just had a fight, and she wants to cuddle with me in her bed like I was a toddler. Moreover, she… she repelled me. She was thirty-nine, but she looked so old, like some very old woman. She didn't wear a bra, and I could see her-… her… For God's sake, she didn't even bother to cover herself up."

"Please go on," Paul said, leaning forward just a bit, fingers clasped and tips touching his lips.

"She begged me to stay with her. I said I couldn't because I wanted to meet with a couple of friends at some club at St. Kilda. She laughed at me. Said there weren't any friends. She was right. I just wanted to get out of there, to get away from her as far as possible. So I left."

"Where did you go?"

"To the beach," he said, tears rolling down his face. His voice was low and shaky. "I brought a sleeping bag with me and stayed over night. It wasn't the first time. I only returned to the house in the morning to get my things for school. I didn't look after her. Didn't know that she was… lying there, just lying there on the floor like a broken doll."

Paul felt a sense of unease. He couldn't exactly pinpoint why. It wasn't like he hadn't been in similar places before. People in therapy were traumatized by the death of someone close to them all the time. It was a textbook situation, and yet Paul couldn't help thinking that something was off. Even though there was evidence of emotional turmoil, the boy seemed unruffled, too stoic about something that must have shattered his whole world just months ago.

"What happened then? Can you tell me about it?"

"I went to school. I got home, made dinner, did the dishes. She wouldn't show up. I went upstairs to her room. I knocked on the door. There was no response, but the telly was on, so I figured she'd fallen asleep while watching her silly daily soaps. I think I went for a walk or something because it was nearly dark when I returned. The TV was still on. I suddenly felt like I should call someone. It was weird, like I knew what was going to be behind that door, and like I'd known for a long time. I opened the door. There was a smell hanging in the air like I've never smelled before in my life. I think I started to retch even before I saw it. I don't remember what I did, probably opening a window or something. It was there, in the space between the bed and the window. One of her legs was still on the bed, but I hadn't noticed when I came in, I don't know why. It was so-… her foot in that slipper, sticking out in the air. I think I threw up, but I can't remember any details of what I did next, or what it was like. I don't remember anything except for that foot in her slipper."

Paul remained silent, watching Robert closely. There was something about the way he spoke, and the way he looked. He was pale as a sheet, and his eyes were glazed over. It gave him a chill down his spine. Finally, he said: "Did you call your father?"

"I called an ambulance. Checked her vitals. I knew it was pointless, but I did it anyway. I remember thinking that, had she still lived, I'd known exactly how to do CPR on her, but I knew I couldn't… couldn't do it even if-… I just couldn't have done it." He bent his head and groaned. It was a soft, unthinking noise, like the sound of a small wounded animal.

Paul felt the impetuous notion to pull him into an embrace. Instead, he sat down on his heels in front of him. "Robert, look at me. Please look at me."

He did, eyes clouded with pain.

"None of this is your fault."

"I walked out on her," Robert said, a forced smile on his face that made Paul's skin curl. "So don't tell me it wasn't my fault."

Paul reached for the boy's hands when he suddenly felt warmth and moisture on his fingers.

Alarmed, he unclenched Robert's fist underneath the jacket, throwing it off the couch in the process. There was blood on both their hands. Paul groaned when it dawned on him. The boy must have taken a small knife from the kitchen with him into the office, grasping the blade hard enough to spill his own blood. "Oh God, Robert," he muttered, exasperated, stunned by the sight. "For heaven's sake, why did you-…"

But it wasn't a question really; he knew.

He sat down next to him onto the couch and allowed Robert to curl up against him, holding him tight until his laboured breathing became more regular.

He would have to call the Turners and inform them not to wait up for their guest.


	9. Father Figure

_Day Eight_

_Friday, 7:45 am_

**Father Figure**

* * *

The next morning, he was gone.

Paul let his gaze wander across the couch Robert had slept on, vaguely surprised that he didn't feel surprise at all. The blanket lay neatly folded on the edge of the settee, with the striped pyjama pants Paul had given him on top of it. Other than that, nothing indicated that someone had spent the night in his office.

Paul ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. He collected the blanket and the pillow along with the pants and carried them back upstairs, trying hard to focus on his daily routine. Personal investment aside, he couldn't afford to be distracted from his work by some teenaged runaway. And yet he couldn't shake off the notion that their encounter had not been coincidental. Paul didn't believe in fate or divine intervention. He certainly didn't view himself as the man with the answers to all of the world's problems, but he knew what he was capable of, and he knew that this kid needed help; help that, if given the chance, he would have offered gladly.

It didn't matter that Robert refused being treated like a patient. It didn't matter that, now that Rowan had left for Australia, there was little chance Robert would enter treatment in the first place.

Paul silently laughed at himself, shaking his head as he recognized the consequences of his musings. The truth was, he felt lonely since Kate had left for New York, and he didn't feel lonely when Robert was around. Maybe it was as simple as that, or maybe it wasn't; either way, he was hoping to see the boy again.

Back in the kitchen, he put the extra dishes back into the cupboard, slightly amused at the fact that he had been brewing up coffee. He preferred tea. In his bachelor days, breakfast usually consisted of a cup of strong Assam, and a filter cigarette. He had given up smoking when he and Kate moved in together, but still kept a pack around, just in case.

He went downstairs to indulge the sudden craving for nicotine, not giving a second thought to the coffee and the buttered toast on the table.

* * *

His last patient for the day had left when Paul heard the squeaking of the back yard door.

Storing away his papers in a drawer, he waited until he heard a hesitant knock on the window pane. He got up from his desk and opened.

Robert was standing on the doorstep, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands deeply buried in the pockets of Paul's jacket, his backpack across his shoulder. "Bet you thought I wouldn't come back."

"You left early."

"Yeah." Robert shuffled his feet. "Sorry about that. I was thinking about leaving you a note or something, but that was after I walked out of the door. Couldn't get back in without waking you up."

"It's okay. Come on in. It's cold out there." Paul indicated at his hand. "How's the pain?"

"Still hurts a bit." Robert flexed his bandaged fingers and made a face. "Guess I deserve it."

"Why would you say that?"

Robert gave him an amused look. "You know, one can totally tell that you're a shrink in real life."

Paul acknowledged the observation with an apologetic smile. "Does it bother you?"

"You're alright for a shrink." Robert plopped down on the sofa and drew up his knees. "Thanks for letting me crash at your place. And thanks for not telling June and Russell about-… you know. It was a stupid thing to do. You must think of me as a perfect nutcase."

"It's not what I'm thinking at all." Paul took the opposite chair. "Did they ask questions?"

"They were worried. I told them I accidentally cut myself while fixing a meal and that you were taking care of it. It wasn't hard to make up a convincing tale. I'm all sorts of thumbs these days." Robert moved his injured arm to emphasize his meaning.

"So how was your day?"

"It was rotten." He started joggling his knees. "Russell took me to the hospital with him. He showed me around a bit until he got paged, so I went to the cafeteria and waited for him like, half of the day? It's a huge waste of time, this is."

"I had the impression that this is what you wanted."

Robert puffed, blowing his hair from his eyes. "I didn't expect it to be a bleeding bore."

"You don't think you could give it a try? There may be something you find interesting, eventually."

"I told you I'm not planning on becoming a doctor. All these sick people demanding your attention, hoping that you're the one who can fix them, mending the damage that they've done to themselves; it's hideous."

"What do you mean by 'damage they've done to themselves'?"

"Diseases have causes. People don't take care of themselves, but as soon as they fall sick, they go to the doctor's and expect them to fix them with some magic remedy. It's like driving your car in the same gear all the time, and then complaining about it at the garage."

"Some diseases may be caused by hazardous behaviour, but I don't think it can be taken as a rule. There are lots of illnesses that cannot be prevented, no matter how cautious you are."

"Yeah, whatever." Robert casually started to kick the table. "It's just not my kind of thing."

"So what is your kind of thing?"

"I don't know."

"You never thought about it? You never fantasized about what your life might be like in the future?"

"There was a time when I wanted to be a vet. Then I was thinking about becoming an architect, but that was because it had to do with art. I always liked art classes. When I was eight or so, my parents took me to Sydney to see some opera by Puccini. So I wanted to be a famous composer." He scoffed. "I don't even know how to play an instrument. I asked my dad for piano lessons, but he said it was too late to start, and I'd never be good enough to get a career out if it." He stopped joggling his legs and looked at Paul. "Sounds pretty gay, huh?"

"No, not at all." Paul joined his fingertips and brought them to his lips. "What about hobbies?"

Robert shrugged. "Nothing special, I guess."

"I remember how you've mentioned church to me on several occasions. You said that… prayer used to be a safe place, once. Is that something that felt… secure, where you were at ease?"

"Maybe." Robert picked at the dressing on his hand. "I don't want to talk about it now."

"Would you like to talk about what happened yesterday?"

"Not really." He shook his head. "Nah. I don't think so."

"It was a pretty emotionally charged moment. You were describing how you found your mother in her bedroom-…"

"I said I'm sorry, okay?" Robert huffed. "I shouldn't have cut myself, and I shouldn't have told you in the first place. I knew you'd analyse it to death. I didn't tell you to make you go all gooey on me, alright?"

"That's not what I'm doing," Paul said.

"I told you because I thought you knew what it was like. You told me about your mother, so I thought it would be fair to tell you about mine. Why do you have to make such a big deal out of it?"

"It is a big deal," Paul said quietly, "Don't you agree?"

"All I want is people to stop worrying about me. It's annoying. I didn't turn into a retard the moment she was dead. Why do people insist that there is some huge trauma when someone dies? Because sometimes it just isn't! Sometimes things are what they are, and all you can do is to go on. It's what I'm doing. I'm not psychotic or marked for life because she's not there anymore. I'm not suddenly half the person I used to be just because she decided to bloody die on me. There is nothing to lose sleep over, there really isn't."

"I think there is," Paul said, "and I'm thinking that you try to avoid the emotional impact that her death has on you because you've never allowed yourself to be vulnerable. To really show what goes on in your head and your heart because nobody really ever cared about what you were having to say about this. I think you have a lot to say, and it's been suppressed long enough to make you feel like this is the normal thing to do; that this is the only way how to cope with her death. It's not going to work, Robert. It will come back to you one way or the other."

He almost expected Robert to walk out of the room. There was a moment when it seemed like he wanted to get up and out, but he didn't.

Instead, he kept his gaze on the carpet. The knee joggling started all over again. "I don't want to talk about her anymore."

Paul leaned back in his chair and waited, allowing Robert to re-collect his thoughts. The boy shifted in his seat, avoiding eye contact. He appeared to be extremely uncomfortable, apprehensive almost. Paul could nearly feel the boy's need to break the on-going stillness between them.

"I'm thinking about committing to the church," Robert said after a long moment of silence. He glanced up, as if to check for Paul's reaction. "It's not a joke. I'm thinking about becoming a priest."

"Is church the place where you feel safe?"

"Maybe." Robert shrugged. "I don't know, really. It just crossed my mind some time ago and got stuck with me."

"I could be wrong, but don't you have to have a calling in order to devote yourself to the church?"

"I think I have it," Robert said. "I mean, I'm not a hundred percent sure, not yet, but I'm only sixteen. It might grow stronger with time. I spoke with Father Thomas about it. He's my assigned confessor at school," he explained. "He promised to get in touch with a friend who's teaching at seminary in Newcastle. In England, that is. He said he might write me a letter of recommendation. "

"Hm." Paul watched the boy closely. "Becoming a priest, that's a life-long commitment, isn't it?"

"You think I'm not up to it?"

"It's not my place to decide. If this is what you really want, go for it."

"My dad won't approve, obviously. He's going to try and talk me out if it. That's why I haven't told him yet. I'm thinking about applying for seminary first. If I'm in, he might at least understand that I'm serious about it." He glanced at Paul. "How would you feel if your only son decided to become a priest?"

"I don't know. A little surprised at first, perhaps, but I guess it is something that would entail a lot of discussion. It's a choice that shouldn't be made without due consideration."

"Do you believe in God, Paul?"

It was a complex question with a variety of possible answers. At best, Paul liked to see himself as agnostic. He was raised catholic like Robert, and he had no difficulties respecting people who drew strength from their faith, although it had never been much of an issue in his own family. What did bother him was the church as an institution. "I'm afraid I'm not sure. Do you?"

"I used to pray when I was younger. I still do sometimes. It's like there is somebody listening to me."

"How does that feel?"

"It's good. I get light-headed, like I was under some sort of spell or something? Only that I'm not. It feels like my senses sharpen. Sometimes, it feels like there is somebody standing next to me, like there is some sort of a presence, you know?"

"Maybe you feel that way because it's what you want to feel," Paul suggested.

"No," Robert said resolutely, "It's not my imagination. There was this incident that really opened my eyes about what it is. You wanna hear it?"

"Sure."

"After they'd taken away my mother to the morgue, I locked myself up in my room. I didn't feel anything. Everything was numb, like I was dead too. It was weird, like I was functioning on auto-pilot. Eventually, I went down to my knees and prayed, and I knew that, at some point, I wasn't alone in that room."

Paul listened intensely, watching the boy in front of him. "How did that feel?"

"It wasn't scary or something. I didn't feel that huge weight pulling me down anymore. I could breathe again, really breathe, like I was suffocating before without even being aware of it." He paused. "You think that's bullocks, don't you?"

"No, I'm not." Paul held the boy's gaze, aware of how important it was for Robert to make him understand. "Can I ask you something? What… what was it you were saying to… to God when you had that particular experience?"

"It's not like you're having an actual conversation. I'm not saying it can't happen, but it wasn't like that. It's not about words, not entirely. I mean, you start out with words, normally, but there's a point when you don't even know what you wanted to say anymore. I remember thinking that I wanted to cry. I never cry, but that night, it seemed like I really could. It wasn't because I felt sorry or miserable because of my mother. It was just that-… that sense of being overwhelmed, like you could do nothing else but to let it go?"

Paul, familiar with the notion albeit on a more modest scale, nodded. "I think I see what you're trying to establish."

"I'm not trying to establish anything. I'm telling you how it feels; what it's like to be linked to something that is too big to be rationalized. It's terrifying, and at the same time, it's the most amazing thing there is." Robert shook his head. "It's hard to explain, really."

"Did it happen to you before?"

"No."

"But it happened the night after your mother died."

"Yes. Yes, it did." He looked up, defiance in his eyes. "It wasn't wishful thinking, and it wasn't make-believe, either. God came into my life when I asked him to, and nobody is going to convince me otherwise."

Paul observed him thoughtfully, chin resting in his hand. "Have you never asked him before?"

"I didn't think I needed him," Robert said, in a quiet voice, "Not as much, anyway."

"But you do now."

"Look, I know how people like to point out that faith is for pussies-…"

"I don't," Paul said, "On the contrary, I think it takes a lot of courage and strength to stick to what you believe in."

Robert leaned back and crossed his arms, glaring at Paul. "You don't think I'll stick to it?"

"I think that having faith is a beautiful thing, and it can help get you through times that are difficult and painful to deal with. You've just lost your mother, and you're having a hard time connecting to your father who hadn't been in your life for the past couple of years. It's perfectly normal to want that sort of connection; to know that someone listens, and cares about what you have to say."

Robert looked at him incredulously. "Did you just compare God to a shrink?"

"When you first came to me, you asked me if a therapist was akin to a priest. You told me that you used to go to confession, and you linked it to psychotherapy. Do you remember that?"

Robert shrugged. "It was meant to be funny."

"Let's look at this from another angle," Paul suggested. "You said confession never felt like a big deal to you. Why do you think you said that?"

"Because it really isn't," Robert said. "You go in there, acknowledge your trespasses, get absolution and off you go. Simple."

"But talking to God the night after your mother died wasn't like that, no?"

"I didn't confess to God. Why should I?"

"Can you answer that question for me, please?"

Robert scoffed. "Because he knew already?"

"Exactly. You know what the problem is with God?"

"What?"

"You can't lie to him. Consequently, you can't lie to yourself. Is it possible that, the night after your mother's death, you were completely honest to yourself because you knew you couldn't hide anymore when you were talking to God?"

Robert moved uncomfortably, but was attentive enough to keep the conversation going. "I don't know what you're driving at. Prayer and confession is like two totally different things."

"Most Catholics would definitely agree with you, but can you tell me what the main difference is, to you?"

"What you said," Robert admitted, after a long moment of consideration.

"Can you please try and put it into your own words, Robert?"

He struggled a bit, his eyes darting across the room as though he was looking for an escape route. Finally, the words came, subdued, hushed. "I couldn't tell them. I could tell no-one, not even Father Thomas."

"What was it that you couldn't tell?" Paul asked softly.

"What it was like." Robert hunched his back and covered his face with both hands. His breath became shallow, and he seemed close to a hiccup.

"What was? Robert, look at me. Look at me, please."

"No." It came out like the whimper of a trapped and wounded animal.

Paul, worried that he had tackled too much too soon, sat down next to him and put his hand on the boy's back for support, only to realize that he was shaking. "It's okay. It's okay. Take a deep breath. It's going to be alright."

"No it won't", Robert sobbed, shying away from the touch. "She's dead. How can it ever be alright?"

Paul kept quiet, waiting for the boy to speak again. When he did, his voice sounded stifled. "She didn't kill herself. The paramedic suspected death by asphyxiation when he saw her, and he was right. I knew he was right. I've seen the sheets. They were soiled with vomit. If I had been there-… If I hadn't left the house that night because of some stupid argument over nothing-… She asked me to stay. She asked me to stay with her, and I left."

Paul felt his heart ache, but even more so, he felt anger. It was suddenly hard to maintain the position of an objective observer.

Robert's voice was barely a murmur when he continued, restrained and deliberately blunt, even though it was obvious how difficult it was for him to re-live the events. "The coroner found soporifics and antidepressants in her system. It wasn't enough to be fatal, but she'd downed half a bottle of vodka before she fell asleep."

Paul couldn't help but to inhale sharply. "Half a bottle, you say."

Robert wiped his nose. "She would have those issues sometimes, when she couldn't make it through the day without a drink or two? It wasn't a big deal when she had a glass to get her out of bed and into her clothes. It wasn't vodka. She'd usually stick to Aperol or something. She wasn't-…. She wouldn't have touched the vodka if I had been there."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I hid it from her. I kept the bottle in my room so she wouldn't find it. She'd always ask me to store the stuff somewhere out of her reach because she'd had a hard time to stop once she got started. It was always like that with her, not just the alcohol. She'd never do things half-heartedly."

There was the unmistakable trace of affection in the way he said it. Paul wondered how much Robert had adapted the part of the adult in their relationship, with the mother being the one who needed to be taken care of. He could relate to the boy's situation from his own experiences, yet he knew how destructive it was for a child.

"When did this start?" he asked, thinking of the small boy in the pool on the Polaroid, and the statue-like beautiful young woman sitting on the brink of it with a cocktail glass next to her.

"She was a good mother," Robert said. "She used to be until he left her. It all went to pieces afterwards, and I don't think I can forgive him for that, ever." He seized his backpack, suddenly eager to leave. "It's late. I better get going. June told me to be back by nine. They wanted to take me to the movies or something."

Paul watched him get his things together.

Robert hesitated when he reached for the jacket. "Damn. I haven't thought about taking an extra coat with me."

"It's fine. Just take it. You can return it another time."

"Tomorrow, perhaps?" Robert suggested, hopefully. "I know it's the weekend, but I don't know if I can make it on Monday. Russell promised to introduce me to the pharmacist next week, and I'm not sure what they're planning to do for the evening."

"Tomorrow is fine. Do you enjoy your stay at the Turner's?"

"I guess." Robert shrugged. "They're nice people, June especially. She's trying to fatten me, but apart from that, she's great."

"I'm glad to hear that. Listen, if there is anything you feel you want to talk about, please give me a call. You can talk to me anytime, you know that."

"Yeah, I know." Robert looked at him. "A little bit like God, right?"

Paul smiled ruefully. "You've got me there. I hope you'll forgive the blasphemy."

"It's not," Robert simply said, shouldering his backpack and turning at the door to look at Paul. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"I shall look forward to it. Good night, Robert."


	10. Boundaries

_Day Nine_

_Saturday, 6:30 pm_

**Boundaries**

* * *

"I was expecting you last night. You could have called." Dr. Gina Toll opened the door to let Paul into her office.

It was the feminine version of his own: soft, cream-beige overtones, with potted plants meticulously placed in front of the double glass doors, and selected art prints by Chagall and Redon mounted and framed and put up on the white-washed walls. An exquisite vase of white flowers sat on the couch table, perfectly matched to the immaculate ivory-coloured upholstery of the sofa.

"I left a message," Paul said, pulling out of his winter coat and removing the scarf from his shoulders. Both were sprinkled with melting snow. Paul knew they'd be cold and wet by the time he'd leave, so he put it close to the fire place across the back of a chair before settling down on the sofa.

Gina smiled in subtle amusement. "I only got to listen to it when I checked the machine this afternoon. Apparently, you called in the middle of last night."

"Yes; Gina, I'm sorry." Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was too busy to keep our appointment. Truth to be told, I simply forgot. Kate's been out of the house, and I ran out of food so I had to make a late night trip to the mall. Since I was already there I decided to walk down Broadway to pay a due bill at Jake's liquor store and the owner practically chewed my ear off. By the time I got home it was too late to call off the appointment."

Gina chuckled softly. "You paid some debt in a liquor store? Paul, even after ten years, you still manage to surprise me."

"It's not what you're thinking," Paul hastened to clarify. "Actually, it's part of the reason why I've been so busy this week. I've met this kid – well, it was more of an arrangement of his father's for the boy to come and see me. He asked me to evaluate his son's state of mind within one single session," Paul scoffed. "He's a rheumatologist, and a famous one at that. He probably looks at the test results of his patients and knows exactly what's wrong with them. He's not that good with his own kid, though."

"Do I hear a hint of resentment behind your assessment?"

"God, yes," Paul raked his fingers through his black hair. "He's a snob, and completely oblivious to what his son is going through. The boy lived with his mother for the past five, maybe six years. She died a couple of months ago, apparently drinking herself to death. The way he described it, she couldn't get over the divorce, and succumbed to depression and substance abuse in the process. She couldn't take care of the kid, so he decided to take care of her instead. He's as proficient in the kitchen as he is in cleaning up. I think he tried very hard to maintain a normal façade, rather successfully, I might add."

"That's terrible."

"What's even more terrible is the fact that he keeps defending her. He's sixteen, and he talks and behaves like he's twice his age. I've never seen such a prudent yet disturbed kid in my life. He's in constant opposition to his father, and I can't blame him for that, but he won't see fault in his mother."

"I'm beginning to understand why you're fascinated by this boy," Gina said, smiling, and pouring them two cups of tea. "I'd like to hear more about him. What's his name?"

"Robert. He's from Melbourne. Handsome kid, he is. You wouldn't believe he's in the midst of puberty. He looks… childlike, innocent. The first moment I saw him I nearly mistook him for a girl. – He's not effeminate," Paul added, "but I couldn't help noticing how different he was from what I normally encounter in therapy. I've treated adolescents before, but none of them were like him."

"You've got a special gift when it comes to young patients," Gina said, "I've seen you working with them, and I always thought you were handling them with a natural integrity that doesn't come easy to most other therapists. Sometimes I think you're more comfortable with children than you are with adult patients."

"Maybe because they haven't yet perfected the art of deception," Paul said, and laughed, "Although I must admit that Robert comes fairly close to the shrewd mind of an adult. He's a smart kid."

"You speak with a lot of affection of him. I don't hear that from you often. You usually complain about the struggles your patients are going through, and how you get frustrated by setbacks."

"He's not my patient," Paul explained. "He comes to my place every day after practice. When his father left for Australia, Robert found a way to stick around. He's living with a colleague of his dad's for the time being. His father only agreed because there's some sort of an internship at John Hopkins involved. I think he hates it. Doesn't want to walk in his father's shoes."

"Very much like you, no?" Gina smiled. "You used to tell me that you want to be anything except becoming a copy of your father."

"I did become a doctor after all," Paul pointed out.

"A healer of the mind," Gina mused. "There couldn't be a greater difference to what your father does."

Paul chuckled, feeling oddly at ease with his mentor. Gina had been his supervisor long enough to know him inside out, which was a bit scary sometimes, but it also allowed Paul to speak what was on his mind without the risk of being misinterpreted. He appreciated that about Gina. He also appreciated her analytical mind, and her straightforwardness.

"You know what's curious?" he said. "He wants to become a priest. He told me yesterday."

"It's not unusual for a teenager with a broken home to seek solace in social commitment. It's what you did, too. You've committed yourself to the needs of others by choosing to become a therapist."

Paul politely disagreed. "It's not what I did, but you're wrong both ways. He doesn't want to become a priest in order to devote himself to other people's needs. He's not the social type with a bleeding heart syndrome. I think he wants to turn to faith because it's the only thing that may eventually provide him with what he's been looking for all of his life. He literally has no-one to turn to. I got the impression that God is the only one who won't let him down. At least that's how he feels about it."

"You think his faith is strong enough to sustain that notion?"

Paul shrugged. "I don't know. I hope it does, for his sake."

"How old did you say the boy was?"

"Sixteen."

"Didn't your father leave when you were around that age?"

"Fifteen," Paul said. "I know what you're going to say, Gina. You'll tell me how I'm about to project my younger self onto that boy and how badly this will affect my work with him."

Gina smiled. "I thought you said he's not a patient of yours."

"He isn't. But we talk a lot, and he slowly begins to open up to me. I think I know what goes on inside of him, and it isn't entirely based on my being a therapist."

"Of course not," Gina said, matter-of-factly. "If he is as special and smart as you say he is, he might sense the corresponding elements between you and him. You both were going through a difficult childhood, struggling with the divorce of your parents and the damage it has done to both your families. You were left alone to deal with a sick and depressed mother and an absent father. So was he. You've both grown up too fast. You had to." She leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands. "I remember you telling me that you were having problems after your mother was committed to a nursing home."

"The drinking too much, yeah," Paul admitted. "I felt betrayed by her, and by my father. He took her out of our home and put her into a facility when I should have been taking care of her. I was good at it. Grown accustomed to it, I suppose."

"He deprived you of that sense of being important to someone."

Paul scoffed. "It's funny, Gina. I cursed her every single day for giving me hell. But as soon as she was gone I felt like a huge part of my life was missing. It wasn't even an agreeable part, and yet I couldn't help wanting her back in that house, in that tiny room she used to live in."

"You missed her," Gina assessed. "You missed the idea of being the centre of her life."

"You make me sound very selfish."

"It's not what I'm doing at all. She gave you purpose; a daily pattern you could live by. You had built your whole life around her. It's no surprise you were falling into a severe depression." Gina paused for a moment. "You were mentioning a liquor store bill when you came in."

"What about it?"

"I was worried for a second."

"Oh, don't be." Paul laughed. "That was on Robert's account. He'd smashed a couple of bottles by accident and was subsequently arrested by the police. He had no ID with him, so they brought him to my place. I promised to pay for the damage."

"You did?" Gina eyed him sceptically. "Why?"

"He was scared. Didn't want his father to know about it. I could relate."

"Why does a sixteen year old boy walk into a liquor store in the first place?"

"Jesus, Gina, I don't know. He didn't want to tell me."

"Do you see the pattern?" Gina asked. "That boy may seem smart and prudent to you, but he's reeling inside. He's been through a most traumatic experience, the death of his mother. He's also the product of a divorce and a broken home, and he thinks religion is the only way out of his misery. Don't you think you're taking this too lightly, Paul? Just because you can relate to him doesn't mean he's emotionally more stable than you have been."

"Wait. Are you suggesting I was emotionally unstable?"

"You were," Gina said, "and sometimes I think you dismiss the effects that childhood has on a person throughout the rest of their lives. Making him feel wanted by turning your attention to him won't do him much good if you don't address the issues that brought him to you in the first place. You resorted to drinking yourself even when you were old enough to know better. What does this boy do to himself to cover the damage that's been done to him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said that he's defending his mother despite her apparent negligence of her own son. He may be in denial; he may be delusional, even. It's your job to find out."

"Are you saying this because he happens to talk to God? Come on, Gina, that's a long shot even from you."

"It's not his beliefs I'm concerned about. I'm concerned about you, Paul. You let this young man into your life without the rules and boundaries that apply to you when you're a therapist. You feel drawn to him, and you've developed protectiveness towards him because he reminds you of you as a boy. You even bailed him out when you should have questioned him for his motives for being in that liquor store. Why didn't you dig deeper? I know you would have if he was a regular patient."

Paul felt anger flaring up. "You see what the problem is here? You treat everybody like they're sitting on your couch as a case. I'm coming to you as a friend, telling you about my week, and all you have to do is lecturing me on how to deal with a kid that you've never even met."

"You chose to tell me about him. He's been on your mind, and you wanted to hear an outsider's opinion. I give it to you, and now you're upset because it differs from what you wanted to hear?"

"It just bugs me that you're so confident about his-… his mental defects. Yes, he's damaged – how wouldn't he be? Yes, he pulls away from his world by forming a personal relationship with God – or, to put it in your words, with a concept you find superfluous at best."

"These aren't my words, Paul."

"I remember your lectures at the institute very well, Gina. You insisted that spiritual conviction of any kind has no place in therapy. You said that's what the church is for, and that we are not priests but scientists. What if I don't want to be either for the boy? What if I offered him my friendship instead? Would that be so terrible?"

"Paul, you know what's going to happen if you do that. He's going to depend on you. He's going to choose you as a surrogate father figure that he's in desperate need of. He already schemed his way into your life by hanging around town, don't you see that?"

Paul threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, this is perfect. I'm being manipulated by a cunning teenager."

"You said yourself that he doesn't want to go into medicine, yet he set up the internship at university even though, to quote you from a few moments ago, he hates it. Why do you think he did it anyway?"

"He said he wanted some time for himself."

"I think he wanted to spend more time with you. He couldn't tell you for fear that you might reject him, but the fact is that he got to stay. He's staying for a reason, and it's not the internship." Gina sighed. "I don't blame him, or you. I just want you to understand how vulnerable you become when you don't establish boundaries."

"He doesn't need boundaries, Gina. He doesn't need that crap that reduces him to an angry, disturbed kid who needs to have insight into his fucked up life. What he does need is somebody who cares about him, who listens, who gives a damn about what he has to say."

"Don't we do that in our work with patients?"

"There are limits. You spoke about boundaries. How am I supposed to tell him that I can't touch him when a hug is all it takes to make him feel a little bit better? How am I supposed to make him reflect on his situation when he's perfectly aware of its dreadfulness? I don't want this, Gina. Can't you understand? I don't want him to feel miserable when he's with me."

"Yes, I understand that," Gina said softly. There was a moment of silence between them, and Paul was grateful for it. He glanced at his watch. It was time for him to leave, or he would risk having Robert to wait in front of the house when the temperature was below freezing point.

"Take care," Gina said, walking him to the door.

By the time he got home, the answering machine on his desk was flashing its incoming message signal. The first came from Kate, wondering where he was and wishing him a good night's rest; the second one informed him that Robert Chase had been in an accident.

* * *

"Dr. Paul Weston?" The woman who rose from the chair looked peaky. Her hands were clutching a handbag, and her hair, cut in an elegant bob, was slightly tousled. She wore a pencil skirt and a fur-brimmed coat, reminding Paul of a movie star back from the Forties. "I'm June Turner. Robert asked me to call you when he woke up. - I'm not sure of your… relationship with him."

"I'm a friend," Paul said, leaving it at that. "What happened?"

"If only I'd know. My husband and I took him to the movies last night, but he didn't seem to enjoy himself much. We had dinner afterwards at a restaurant, and he barely looked at his meal. He said he was just tired when Russell expressed concern. – We know about his mother," she added. "Rowan told us. It must have been a terrible shock for the boy, but you know what they're like at this age. They go all dramatic over the suicide of a celebrity or the demise of a pet, but remain mysteriously detached when someone close to them-…" She broke off, frowning. "Anyway, Russell and I decided that it wasn't our place to discuss such delicate matters with him. And it didn't seem necessary, either."

"You said on the phone that he suffered an accident," Paul pressed, glancing uncomfortably at the phalanx of doctors that were passing them on the corridor.

"Sometime around noon today, yes. He said his cap had gone missing. He thought he might have left it at the cinema or at the restaurant the night before, so he asked Russell if he could take his bike from the garage. He wanted to go search for it. I would have taken him downtown myself, but he said it was fine, and that he needed the exercise. I thought nothing of it. Russell has this racing bicycle that he hasn't used in years. It's one of those minimalistic things with wheels like hairpins. I saw Robert leaving through the kitchen window, and I remember thinking that the saddle would have needed adjustment. Russell is six foot two, and the boy is about my size. You get the idea."

She got interrupted when a man in a corduroy jacket stepped out of a door and walked up to them. Judging by his impressive height, Paul expected him to be June Turner's husband.

"Dr. Russell Turner," the man introduced himself, offering Paul a firm handshake. "You must be Dr. Weston. You're not a colleague of Rowan's by any chance, are you?"

"He's a friend," June explained, looking anxiously at her husband. "How's Robert?"

"He got lucky. The bike is total scrap metal. It's a miracle how he got away with just scrapes and bruises. – He'll be fine," he said to his wife, making her sigh in relief. "He's got a concussion, and he broke two fingers of his right hand when he fell on the road. Other than that, there's nothing to worry about."

"Thank God," June exhaled.

Russell turned to Paul. "My wife told you what happened?"

"She was about to, but-…"

"He drove the bike down Garrison Boulevard. Apparently, he was passing a bus stop when it happened. The bus driver saw him taking a turn towards the middle track when he was about to move the bus out onto the road, and the following car hit the boy. The bike got squashed between the bus and the car. I don't know how he made it out of there alive, frankly. He's a bit disoriented and has a severe headache, but the CT scan revealed no internal bleeding or any signs of serious head trauma. He's got really, really lucky. We'll keep him under observation for a few days, just to make sure."

"So how is he? Can I see him?" Paul asked.

"I see no reason why you shouldn't", Russell said. "He's been asking for you as soon as he was getting conscious." He pointed at the door behind him. "Make it short if you can. He needs all the rest he can get. Dr. Barker has administered a mild sedative for the pain, so don't expect too much from him."

It was a three-bed room, with the lamps dimmed down already for the night. One of the patients glanced at Paul and then returned to his paperback; the other man was sound asleep, snoring softly. Paul sat down on a plastic chair next to Robert's bed. The boy was asleep, or it looked like he was; stretched out on his back, his bandaged hand resting on his chest, the fingers of his left slightly curled on the cushion. After a moment of hesitation, Paul reached out and gently brushed the curtain of hair back from Robert's face. The boy stirred and blinked at him. When he saw who was sitting next to him, he smiled. It was a dazed, yet utterly charming smile, and Paul felt his heart go out to the battered boy in the bed. It was clear he was in pain, but was reluctant to show it.

"You asked for me. So here I am."

"Like God," Robert said, his voice faint, but the smile lingered.

"Like a friend," Paul said, gently catching Robert's injured hand, careful not to hurt him.

"Did they tell you?"

"I've met the Turners outside. Dr. Turner said there's nothing to worry about. You're going to be okay."

"I don't remember anything. I was driving down the street, passing the bus, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground."

"Do you remember how it happened?"

"I got hit by something, real hard. I flew off my bike and heard the sound of brakes, and then nothing."

"Mrs. Turner told me you were asking for me when you came to. Why?"

"Just wanted you to know. Wanted somebody to care." His speech was slurred, indication of the medicine that was floating in his system. He looked very tired. All of the sudden, he tried to sit up, struggling with the effort it took. "Does my dad know?"

Paul urged him to lie still. "Do you want me to call him?"

"Russell is probably going to do it. – This sucks," he said, turning his face to the window.

"You can do it yourself if you want to. There's a phone on the night stand."

"No, no." He waved it off. "Too tired. I'll call him in the morning." He blinked again. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Time for you to get some sleep."

"Can you stay with me?"

"Of course I can."

Paul watched him shifting his body into a comfortable position, each movement an ordeal. It wasn't long before Robert's breath became even. With the sedative serving its purpose, he was asleep a few minutes later.

Russell Turner approached Paul when he was about to leave the hospital. "Can I talk to you for a moment, Dr. Weston?"

"Sure."

Turner motioned for an office door with his name on it. "It'll be just a minute."

He closed the door behind them, offering Paul a seat. "I spoke with Rowan. I don't have to emphasise how deeply worried he is about what happened to Robert. I don't know much about the boy, but I must confess that nothing about him made me suspicious. Now I hear from his father that he is in psychological treatment." Turner sat down behind the desk. "You're his therapist."

"Not really, actually. Dr. Chase asked me to see his son after an accident that occurred at the hotel they were staying at. It's when he broke his collarbone and sprained his wrist. Didn't he tell you?"

"He said he'd hurt himself while skating back in Melbourne." Turner shook his head. "I've had a notion that he was lying. He seems prone to accidents, and it's not just bad luck. I sometimes wonder if it has anything to do with his family history."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it's an open secret that the mother used to drink, quite excessively so, I'm afraid. It could have been harmful for the child."

"You mean she'd been drinking before Robert was born?"

"It's possible," Turner said, "but it's also quite possible that Robert is not really capable of gauging the situations he gets himself into. Driving a bike in the middle of a stark frequented road is insane to begin with, but especially when there is an alleyway for bikers to use. He opted for the road. It's either stupidity or plain recklessness. He could have gotten himself killed. I didn't mention it in front of my wife, but it was a close call. A truck driver who witnessed the accident told the police that it looked like he had swung the bike onto the street deliberately. There was no reason why he should have switched to the middle lane, and yet he did. According to the witness, he seemed completely oblivious to the traffic around him. I would probably have filed this under juvenile carelessness. But knowing his history, and seeing you here as his therapist-… I'm wondering if there is anything I should worry about?"

"I don't think he's suicidal," Paul said, choosing his words carefully. "He's obviously stressed out by his mother's death, and he's trying to adjust to what is expected from him. Those are conflicting matters. It takes time."

"Time that neither my wife nor I have," Turner said. "I'm a physician. I work sixteen hours a day, and my wife runs a small boutique downtown. We're not prepared to take care of a teenager that may or may not want to kill himself. So I'm asking you, as his therapist. What am I supposed to do with the boy?"

It was a valid question. Paul found it difficult to come up with an answer.

When he didn't respond right away, Turner continued: "I'm thinking about sending him home. Rowan told me about an institution in Torquay. They specialise in treatment of children and youths who suffered emotional trauma."

"Did you discuss this with Robert?"

"I wanted to hear your opinion first," Turner said. "To be honest, I don't think it is ideal, given the fact that he would have to stay there for a couple of weeks the least. He's been with us for a few days only, but I get the impression that he connected to June already. They cook together. He goes grocery shopping for her, and he started to re-decorate my daughter's room. We wanted to turn it into a guest room after Marcia left for university, and he jumped right at it. Offered to do it all by himself. He's good at it, too, with a little help from my wife. What I'm saying is that he seemed to warm up to the idea of staying with us once he got the chance to make himself useful around the house. I'm just not sure if it is enough." He sighed and tapped the tip of a pen repeatedly on the desk. "Well, it doesn't matter anymore now, does it? He won't be able to work with two broken fingers, anyway."

"How long will he have to stay at the hospital?"

"I'll have him admitted for two days, three the most," Turner said. "Physically, he should be fine."

"Don't send him home," Paul heard himself say. "If you don't feel comfortable having him around, let me try. It's no big deal. I work at home, plus I have a room to spare."

Turner looked relieved, albeit a bit reluctant to admit it. "Truth to be told, I'm glad you're suggesting it. Although I have to say that I didn't mean to cause inconvenience."

"It's not. My wife is in New York at her parents', and frankly it's getting a bit lonely around the house. I might be glad for the distraction after all."

"Problems?" Turner asked, indiscreetly.

"Not at all. She went there for Christmas shopping with our son."

"I'm glad to hear," Turner said. "So we have a deal, then."

"I'd like to discuss this with Robert first. I don't want to decide without him."

"Of course. He'll be delighted, as far as I can tell. He talks very fondly of you. Do you want me to break the news to his father?"

"I'd rather do it myself," Paul said, rising from his seat. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Turner."

"It's me who needs to thank you. It'll be a relief to know the boy is in professional hands." He offered Paul his hand, then fishing for a piece of paper on his cluttered desk. "Here's Rowan's card. Don't hesitate to call if there's anything that needs to be talked about."

"Certainly." Paul tugged it away in the inner pocket of his coat, even though he was pretty sure he wouldn't make use of it. "Give my regards to your wife."

"I will. Good luck, Dr. Weston, and thanks again."


	11. Revisited

_Day Ten_

_Sunday, 11 am_

**Revisited**

* * *

"Paul!" Robert beamed at him from his bed, trying to sit up as Paul entered. "I've been waiting all morning. Russell told me you'd come for a visit. I'm glad. It's such a bore in here."

Paul walked his way past the hospital beds, smiling apologetically at the two elderly patients who were sharing the room with Robert.

He placed a small paperbag with a printed logo of a jumping kangaroo onto Robert's nightstand, which earned him a curious look. "For me?"

"Mh-hm. Kate – my wife – suggested bringing a Gameboy or whatever it's called. I can only guess she was pulling my leg."

Robert peaked inside the bag, and grinned. "You've bought me Tim Tams?"

"I hope you like them."

"'Like them.' I could live on that stuff, seriously." He took one of the paper-wrapped biscuits to break the seal. "God, I'm starving. Thank you."

"You seem well."

"I feel great," Robert said, watching Paul taking the chair beside the bed while he was munching on his Tim Tam. "They put all these weird drugs in me? Couldn't feel any better. The food is rotten, though. But the staff is nice. There's this doctor, he's from Scotland, and you can tell. He sounds like Sean Connery. He even has a tattoo on his arm that says 'Scotland forever'. He showed me. It's pretty cool looking. He knows a lot of rude jokes, too. I've never met a doctor like this."

Paul looked at him attentively. "Have you ever been in a hospital before?"

"No." He glanced at Paul. "Not as a patient, that is. I had to spent a night there when-…"

"Go on," Paul said softly. "What was it you were going to say?"

"My mum was admitted when I was eight, maybe nine. They rushed her to the hospital with an ambulance, and I had to go with her."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"I don't really remember. She collapsed in the bathroom. I called my dad at the clinic, but he was busy doing surgery or something, so his secretary made the emergency call. I stayed with her. They didn't want to leave me at home, all by myself."

"That must have been pretty frightening, seeing your mum like that."

"Probably." He shrugged. "I reckon it was. It's a long time ago. I really don't recall much of it, except that the nurse got me a teddy bear with a toy stethoscope around its neck, which was kind of embarrassing. But they've had ice cream, so..."

"Did you stay overnight?"

"They took me to paediatrics, yes. They'd had a spare bed in a room with a boy in it. His name was Sean Cooper. He was in a wheelchair. Spent weeks in and out of the hospital, he said. I remember him sharing his Nintendo with me. We'd sit up all night, playing Super Mario. He was so good at it, it was frustrating. It was like he'd do all the tricky moves for me because I couldn't for the life of me figure it out? I felt like a child." Robert shrugged again. "His mum came in the next morning, even before the nurses came to check on us. She'd brought a jar of home-made cookies, and some books Sean had asked her for. He said he'd have to study hard in order to not fall behind at school. I wonder what became of him. I've never thought about him since."

"You know, even if you say that it was a long time ago, you seem to remember a great deal of detail about it."

"My dad picked me up later in the afternoon. He took me home, and that was it."

"What about your mother? Did you get to see her before you left with your dad?"

"Yeah." Suddenly, he sounded timid.

"What was it like?"

"I don't know."

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"Not really." He sighed, glancing at the snoring man in the bed next to his. The patient closest to the door was reading the newspapers, oblivious to sick visits as long as they didn't concern him. "I think I might have thrown a tantrum or something. I really couldn't understand why they wouldn't let me see her. Eventually, one of her doctors took me to her room. She had all those IV-lines in her arm so she couldn't really move? She tried to get up the moment she'd seen me, and the whole stuff got tangled and it hurt her. She started crying. I ran up to her and threw myself onto her bed. The doctor tried to pull me away, but she'd clung to me. She wouldn't let go, and she was crying so hard the whole bed was shaking. She wouldn't stop kissing my face. It felt so weird, with tears running down her cheeks and all? She smelled funny too, like they'd washed her down with some sort of sanitizer. It was gross."

"It scared you."

"Yes. Fuck yes! I mean, I was eight years old, practically a baby. What do you expect?"

"Did you know what was wrong with her?"

"'course not. I just told you I was a mindless baby back then."

"But you grew older. You got smarter. You've learned from experience, and I think that, looking back on it, you knew what was happening."

Robert turned his face away from Paul. "I don't know what you're getting at."

"You told me she collapsed in the bathroom. There must be a reason why. You can't have let this wash over you like an accidental occurrence, coming out of the blue."

"Maybe it was," Robert said, stubbornly. "Maybe she just fainted because… because her blood sugar was low. I get those dizzy spells myself sometimes when I don't eat properly. It's nothing to worry about."

"Okay." Paul decided to give it a rest for the time being. There would be plenty of time to deepen the subject, in a more appropriate time and place.

For a while, he kept silent, watching Robert staring out of the window. It was a cold December day, with the mist of the near-by ocean creeping up into town, making everything look softer and blurred around the edges.

Finally, Robert turned around and looked at him. "Russell told my dad about the accident."

"Mh-hm. So he told me."

"He shouldn't have. It's nothing serious. I'm fine. Don't you think?"

"According to your doctors, you could have died. I think this is no small matter, Robert."

"God, you sound like my dad." Robert slumped back into the cushions. "I didn't try to kill myself. How many times do I have to tell you until you believe me?"

"Does your dad believe you're trying to kill yourself?"

"Of course not! He just thinks I'm doing crazy stuff to annoy him."

"Is that what you want, annoying your father?"

Robert drew his knees up and pressed his forehead against the insides of his wrists. "I just want you to shut up, is all."

Another stretch of silence passed before Paul spoke again, deliberately changing the subject. "June told me you've lost your cap."

"It's no big deal. My mum gave it to me for my birthday last year." He glanced at Paul. "I'm sure I've left it at the cinema. That's why I was cycling back into town, to look for it there. They took me to a movie, Russell and June."

"Did you like it?"

"It was silly. It was about a guy who got sucked into a board game. He ended up stuck in it, and it took two orphaned kids to get the game going. He needs to finish the game in order to get out of there, and when he wins, there's some sudden magical time lapse back into his past before he started playing the game, and he's this awkward kid again. I don't know why; maybe because he needed to make up with his dad or something. He'd also got the chance to prevent the orphan's parents from being killed in a car accident. And they lived happily ever after." He shrugged. "Kid's stuff, really."

"You know, sometimes in therapy, people tell me that if they could they would turn back the clock. Quite a lot of them, actually."

"I wouldn't," Robert said.

"I don't know about you, but after my mum died, I felt like there were a lot of things left unsaid. We never really talked, not in a way it would have mattered, anyway. I sometimes wish I had tried while she was still there."

Robert hugged his shins, pressing his cheek against his knee caps, and turned to face the skyline outside the windows again.

Paul cleared his throat. "Listen; there is something I wanted to talk to you about. I was thinking about some refurnishing while Kate's away, but I haven't gotten to do anything so far. Kate is using the guestroom as a studio or a study or both in turns, I'm not entirely sure. The point is the house has space enough to arrange a study for her and a guestroom separately. There's an empty room upstairs that I'm sure would make a great spot to give her a place for retreat. It needs some fixing, though."

Robert turned around and looked at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Well, Russell mentioned how much you enjoyed re-decorating their daughter's room into a guestroom. I was wondering if you would like to help me out."

Robert sat up, clearly intrigued. "You mean I could work over at your house?"

"Sure," Paul smiled, "If you want to."

Robert seemed eager at the idea, but reason got the better of him. "I'll have to check with the Turners first. Russell expects me to be at the lectures I guess."

"I already spoke to him about this. He thinks it's a good idea. He even suggested you'd stay over at my place for a while. That way it will be easier for you. You won't have to take the bus to cross half of town to get there and back again."

Robert seemed thrilled. His eyes were gleaming with delight. Then, he suddenly frowned, indicating at his taped hand. "I won't be of much use with two broken fingers."

"Oh, don't worry about that. We'll figure something out. I'm there most of the time, and you can call for help if you need it."

"You're sure it won't be a problem?"

"I wouldn't have asked you if I thought it was."

"Awesome." Robert's smile broadened. "Heck, I would love to-… I mean, if it's okay for you, I'm all in."

"On one condition."

"What?"

"You're working for me, and I won't be paying you. Instead, I want you to see me at my office for one hour each day, at a regular time, as a regular patient. Is that acceptable?"

Robert squinted at him. "What does it mean, 'a regular patient'?"

"It means we're going to schedule daily sessions for as long as you stay at my place. You'll be there on time, and you won't walk out on me whenever you feel like it."

Robert considered Paul's words for a moment. Then, he said: "So you're offering me to work for you, and in return I'll have you let work on me. It hardly sounds fair."

Paul chuckled at his binary logic. "We both might get something out of it, eventually."

"I can stay at your place for as long as I want?"

"You can stay as long as your dad allows you to."

Robert made a face. "Does he have to know?"

"I think he should. I think you should call and talk to him."

"Russell already made a call."

"He might want to hear it from you. I know I would if you were my son."

Robert glanced at the phone on the nightstand, and sighed.

"You don't have to call him now. Take your time, and write down what you want to say to him. It'll make it easier," Paul suggested.

"I don't even know what time it is back in Oz." He watched as Paul got up from his chair. "Can't you take me with you right now? I feel fine. I could take a look at your room, make some drafts. I promise I won't overdo it."

"I'll pick you up as soon as your doctors give the green light, okay? Until then, I want you to stay in bed and take very good care of yourself. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal," Robert said, albeit reluctantly. "Promise you won't be long."

"I promise."

Robert flopped back into the bed and sighed. "Yeah, whatever." He pulled the blanket over his head, and turned the other way.

The patient in the bed next to him gave Paul a sympathetic look. "Kids these days."

* * *

**a/n: **_just a short chapter this time. The movie Chase was watching with the Turners is, as you probably have guessed, Jumanji. It was out around Christmas in the US in 1995, and I've seen it some time later over here but have to confess that I hardly remember anything, let alone the plot. Actually I've seen quite a number of movies with Robin Williams when I was a teenager, and I was very upset about his passing. I hope he's happy now where he is. _

_There was a guest review for the last chapter that, for whatever reason, won't show up. I hope it does, eventually. Thank you guest for reviewing. I'm glad you're enjoying the story, and yay for letting me know. _


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